


Not So Ordinary

by Brinady



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Self-Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:21:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22818415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brinady/pseuds/Brinady
Summary: ---or---"Five times Geralt was left for dead, and one time Jaskier came to save him."In which Geralt encounters suspicion, cruelty, fear, deception, and betrayal as a solitary witcher, but later learns that the love of a friend is stronger than them all.
Comments: 80
Kudos: 426





	1. Later

**Author's Note:**

> This five-and-one fic was inspired by one very moving line from the book "Sword of Destiny." After saving Geralt's life, Yurga rejects Geralt's thanks, insisting that helping someone who was injured in the course of saving your life is only natural. 
> 
> In response, Geralt replies-- "It’s not so ordinary, Yurga. I’ve been left… in similar situations… Like a dog…" 
> 
> This heart-wrenching line, along with the story he tells Roach in episode 1, speaks volumes to Geralt's life as a witcher before meeting Jaskier, Yennefer, Ciri, and the others who become his companions later on. It also goes a long way to explain Geralt's gruff, solitary demeanor and his deep reluctance to accept those relationships.
> 
> Chapter 1 is also a tag to episode 1 of the TV show. The others are non-chronological scenarios not tied to specific events in the show or books.

Geralt stalked through the narrow streets of Blaviken making a beeline for Roach. Thankfully, no further stones were thrown. Those villagers near the fight had been cowed, though their angry, bitter shouts still rang in the witcher’s ears. Those others in the street were suspicious of him, but far too intimidated by his furious demeanor to attempt anything. 

He clenched his bleeding hand in a tight fist and put considerable effort into masking any trace of a limp, though Renfri’s blade had cut deep into his right leg and blood was soaking down into his trousers at an alarming rate. 

The gut wound, too, remained ignored. He just had to get to Roach and get out of this _thrice cursed_ town. The rest could wait til later. 

When he reached the tavern outside which he’d picketed Roach, _where he’d met Renfri,_ he found a trio of boys working up the courage to peek into his saddle bags. 

They scattered at a single glare from the witcher. 

He untied the horse, checked her tack and his belongings and, finding everything to be in good order, he mounted up. 

He took Roach out at a walk, both to avoid putting additional strain on his untreated injuries, as well as to deprive the village folk of the satisfaction of having literally run him out of town. 

He had barely made it fifty yards when, to his astonishment, an arrow whizzed by him. 

He turned in the saddle, furious at the audacity of the villagers. If he had enough energy left to use the sign of Aard...

...but no. Peeking out from behind fences and a couple windows were the same handful of boys and a few young men. A couple of them had thin, pine-wood longbows, clearly meant for hunting small game. They knocked arrows as he watched and, to his surprise, one of those arrows glanced off of Roach’s flank without cutting her. 

Though it would hardly have hurt the horse, Roach was obviously agitated by the projectiles, so Geralt urged her forward into a lope, despite the pain the extra movement caused to the wound in his side. 

Just as they were almost out of range he felt a shaft _thunk_ into his shoulder. Under other circumstances he would have congratulated whomever had made that shot. The head of the arrow successfully parted his armor and buried itself maybe a centimeter into his flesh. 

It was an inconsequential injury, and Geralt only had one serviceable hand at the moment, which was occupied with the reins, so he left the arrow where it was and rode on out of sight of the town.

* * *

Several miles down the road saw Geralt still riding inexorably onward. Roach had slowed to a trot, and then to a steady walk, of her own volition, having received no further input from her rider. 

Geralt’s mind was back in Blaviken, relentlessly reviewing everything that had gone wrong. Desperately trying to work out what he could have done differently, what he could have done or said to save her. 

_Renfri..._

He didn’t notice the copious amount of blood soaking into his waistband, or pouring down his leg. 

A distant part of him was aware that he should drink Swallow to ensure that the injuries didn’t take too great a toll on him, but the greater part of him simply didn’t care. It wanted him to wallow in loss and blame.

Even when waves of dizziness started to hit, he rode on, heedless.

* * *

“Hey!” Something poked his foot, “Hey mister!”

Geralt resurfaced to consciousness with a low growl.

“You’ve fallen asleep on your horse!”

Indeed, Roach was still under him. She had stopped when she felt him about to lose balance and had side-stepped to a nearby tree which was now preventing him from falling the rest of the way from the saddle.

He looked up slowly, searching for the source of the pokes and the comments.

It was a boy, probably an older teen, traveling alone on the road with a bundle slung over his shoulder. 

“What’s the matter with your…”  
  
The boy trailed off, taking in the golden eyes that now regarded him coldly, the silver hair, the pendant, the sluggishly bleeding wounds…

“But you’re a...you’re… Ahhh!” The boy yelled and threw the stick he’d been poking Geralt with. It bounced off of Roach’s shoulder harmlessly, but startled her. She took a few steps, and Geralt, bereft of the tree for support, tumbled unceremoniously from the saddle. The arrow in his shoulder snapped when his back hit the ground and the shock to that and his other injuries was enough to bring him back to full wakefulness. 

He rolled onto his knees with a soft groan and looked over to see the boy disappearing at a full sprint down the trail. Glancing the other way he saw Roach with her head down, looking at him apologetically.

He shook his head. “Sorry Roach.”

It took him several tries to get to his feet, and he leaned heavily against her.

_Lost too much blood..._

“Let’s get off the road.”

He walked them slowly toward a clearing beside the road a few yards ahead, then walked them in a ways, til he judged they were out of sight. 

“Here we are,” He stopped her, and went to remove her bridle. He tried first with his right hand, but then realized that it was swollen and crusted with blood from the many cuts. He could barely move the fingers, and that with considerable pain. He let the hand drop to his side and worked with his left hand to unbuckle and remove the bridle. Roach's head went down immediately to munch grass. 

He patted her shoulder fondly and then set to work on the saddle. It was considerably harder to work the knots free, but finally he had it loose and slid it to the ground, slumping to the ground himself along with it. Roach looked over at him questioningly. 

“Don’t wander too far.” He waved her off. 

He eyed the saddlebags. He should tend his wounds and make camp for the night. 

He sighed.

_Later..._

He sunk down into the grass and closed his eyes.

_...just..._

_...later._


	2. Someone Else's War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Geralt finds himself caught up in a war. In more ways than one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a longer story, this.  
> Actually, most of these chapters have been written (time for editing is required), and they will proceed in a long-following-short-following-long format until the end of the fic.  
> This takes place in no particular timeframe, though one can assume it's likely before Geralt met Jaskier and the others.

“Looking for work, witcher?” The barkeep asked as Geralt put his coin on the table and turned to leave. 

The witcher looked back, raising an eyebrow in question.

“You can try heading east to Daromin. Heard they've had some trouble hunting a monster over there. Don’t know what sort. Might be up your alley, though?”

Geralt gave that a moment’s thought, then nodded. He pulled out another copper and added it to the first. 

“Thanks.” He said, and headed out the door and on the road to Daromin.

* * *

Daromin, as it turned out, was a middling sized town with a walled keep in the center and a sprawling expanse of grassland on its west side. 

Geralt and Roach emerged onto the plain and were immediately met by a troop of soldiers and their captain. They did not appear to be regular guards, as there was no permanent guard station in evidence, but perhaps they had been patrolling the holding’s border? 

“Halt where you are, traveller.” The captain called and rode swiftly up to Geralt. The foot-soldiers fast-marched to catch up and then took up a defensive formation around their captain, blocking any chance of Roach advancing. 

“What business do you have in Daromin?”

“I’m a witcher,” Geralt replied, touching his identifying pendant, “Geralt of Rivia. I was told there may be work for me here. If I was misinformed I’ll be on my way.” He flicked a hand back, indicating the trail behind him.

“Witcher…” the captain thought for a moment. “You hunt monsters and mutants and the like?”

Geralt nodded.

“Then indeed, Lord Nikolas almost certainly has a job for you. With your permission, we will take you to him at once.”

Without waiting for his ‘permission’ the soldiers formed up around and behind Geralt and began herding him in the direction of the keep. The captain brought his roan alongside Roach and urged him to a fast walk, encouraging Geralt and Roach to keep pace. 

“Were you coming out of Lisow?” The captain asked, conversationally. He seemed quite young to wear the uniform.

“Lopata,” Geralt corrected. It was nearby, but a Darominan would know that.

“Ah,” said the captain, “And they had work for you there?”

Geralt nodded, “A rotfiend near their graveyard.” he explained.

“And you killed it.” Geralt nodded. It had been a thankfully straightforward job.

“Pity.” said the Captain, sounding like he meant it.

“What?” Geralt asked.

“Ah, um-- pity for the townsfolk to have to deal with a rotfiend. I’m sure they were glad you came along.”

“Hm.” Geralt grunted. It was an odd response. Hopefully the young captain was just distracted. 

As they neared the town and the keep, Geralt was surprised to see a _lot_ more soldiers. Whole battalions were practicing maneuvers out on the field and the keep itself seemed to be in the process of re-fortification. 

“What’s going on?” Geralt asked the captain, nodding toward the preparations.

“Surely you’ve heard!” the young man said, “The Baron of Janow has declared his intention to annex Daromin into his barony. His troops will be attacking the keep within a matter of days. But Daromin will hold fast, you’ll see!” 

_I don’t intend to_. Geralt thought. The last thing he wanted was to get drawn into someone else’s war. 

They rode on until they reached the gate of the keep. The guards at the gate recognized the young captain immediately and opened the doors wide to let him and Geralt through. The witcher couldn’t fail to notice the customary whispers and curses that followed in the wake of his passing. 

They dismounted at the livery and the captain gave instructions to one of his sergeants before beckoning to Geralt and escorting him into the keep’s main hall. 

At the far end of the hall sat a small thin man with sparse, graying hair and a small circlet on his head. He was attended by rather numerous guards and several functionaries. 

The captain stepped forward crisply and saluted. “My lord-- I found this witcher at the edge of the west field coming to see you. He is looking for work hunting monsters.”

“Geralt of Rivia.” The witcher said by way of introduction and inclined his head only slightly.

“Oh ho, that _is_ good news. Well met, sir Witcher. And well done young Martin.” The lord’s voice was soft and rather high pitched.

The captain blushed, but bowed respectfully. 

“Do you have work for me, Lord Nikolas?” Geralt asked.

“Indeed I do, sir Witcher. There is a swamp-wyvern’s nest in the marshlands to the east of this keep. We have been trying for the past month to catch the lone remaining wyvern without success. I believe your expertise could be invaluable.”

“Catch?” Geralt said, not quite believing what he’d heard. “You intend to _catch_ the wyvern? To what end?”

“As you no doubt saw on your way here, our keep is under threat of imminent attack. We will catch and release the monster amidst our enemy in order to sew chaos and destruction in their ranks.”

Geralt grimaced. _Human foolishness…_ “I’m afraid I can’t help you.” He said, trying to keep the anger out of his voice. “I’m in the business of killing monsters. Catching them is beyond my area of expertise.”

“Come now, witcher--you are being too modest.”

“I’m _really_ not.”

“At the very least you can lend us some professional advice as to our monster’s strengths and vulnerabilities, and so forth?”

Geralt’s lip curled in frustration. “I destroy monsters whose presence presents a threat to innocent people. I can’t condone using monsters in battle.”

“Soldiers will be crossing our borders, invading our land, and threatening to take our very homes and livelihoods from us-- surely you can’t count them among the ‘innocent.’”

“Perhaps not, but they are boys and men acting on their lord’s orders to fight _other_ boys and men acting on _their_ lord’s orders. Neither side signed up to be a feast for a vicious monster. Believe me, swamp-wyverns are mindless killing machines. If you’re very lucky, it would tear a hole through the Janowan army and feast on it’s flesh. If you’re less lucky, it will come back and feed on the easier prey hiding inside this keep. I’m sorry, Lord Nikolas, my answer is ‘no.’”

“I’m very sorry to hear that.” The lord said, shaking his head grimly. “Take him.”

In one motion, all dozen or so guards in the room drew their weapons and took two steps towards the witcher. Even young Martin followed suit, though his face betrayed uncertainty. 

Geralt's hand was immediately upon his sword, but he paused. “This is pointless Nikolas.” He said, icily. “You can’t force me to help you catch a wyvern. Either I’ll kill it or it will kill me-- neither outcome serves your purpose. Release me and I’ll leave without interfering.”

The lord held up a hand and his men paused in their advance. “Oh, my dear witcher. I’ve no illusions about forcing you to help with the wyvern. But you yourself are a mutant, are you not? If you will not serve me willingly, I have another use for you.” He motioned with a fist. “Seize him. Now.”

Geralt had a split second to decide. He could fight his way out of this room, and then out of the keep. It would be bloody. The guards and soldiers were not especially well trained, but there were a _lot_ of them. He would have to _kill_ a lot of them to make his escape. The one nearest the doorway was the young captain, looking vaguely apologetic but coming at him with determination. 

That did it. 

Geralt released his sword and put his hands in the air in surrender. He was immediately manhandled and given several punches to the gut and chest for his trouble. 

He glared up at the guards who had so little appreciation for the fact that Geralt had decided to spare their lives. 

“Take him to the dungeon.” The little lord spat triumphantly.

A sword hilt crashed into Geralt’s head.

* * *

The “dungeon” was actually the keep’s old wine cellar. The casks had been cleared out recently, but the smell of old grapes was redolent in the air. It was an unpleasant addition to the lingering dizziness from the blow to Geralt’s head.

Upon regaining consciousness he sat up slowly to take in his surroundings. He found he was in, not a cell, but a _cage._ It was wrought iron, new made, and quite strong-- considerably stronger than was necessary to contain a witcher, let alone a human. That did not bode well.

Cat-like eyes adjusting to the almost complete lack of light, Geralt looked around the cellar. There were several other cages nearby, and two of them were occupied. 

Geralt winced involuntarily at what he saw. It certainly explained the stench of rot mixed in with the wine.

The farthest cage contained a juvenile kikimora, or rather-- what was left of it. At least three of its limbs had been sliced off and it was huddled in a heap, crying piteously and licking its festering wounds.

The cage next to Geralt contained a bony heap of fur curled up into a tight ball and unrecognizable from this angle. 

He whistled softly, trying to get it’s attention. He thought he saw what might have been an ear twitch, but couldn’t be sure.

He reached an arm through the bars of his cage and scratched at the stone floor. 

A large head slowly raised itself from the mound of fur and bones and regarded Geralt balefully.

“ _Those sons of bitches…”_ It was a hirikka. Full grown, well past its prime, really. A monster, yes, but a shy herbivore almost extinct in the eastern mountains. No more a monster than an elk or a boar. Though it didn’t appear to have been hacked limb from limb like the kikimora, it was clearly sick from long starvation. 

“Poor brute.” he said to it as low and gentle a voice as he could manage, “Their war is coming. One way or another, your suffering will end soon.”

The hirikka made a sad whimper and laid its head back down on it’s emaciated paws. 

Geralt exhaled a deep breath, channeling his anger into it. Then he sat up, put his hands on his knees and sank into a deep, patient meditation, conserving energy for the battle that was doubtless forthcoming.

* * *

The war was longer in coming than Geralt expected. 

Days passed, unmarked by sunlight, only by the occasional visits of his captors. 

Each of the ‘monsters’ were offered a small bowl of water each day. It was enough to keep a witcher alive, for now, though he knew he would eventually end up like the other two if his imprisonment continued. 

On what was probably the third day, the young captain brought him half a loaf of bread. Geralt considered taking the man hostage, as he was the first to get foolishly close to the cage, but he didn’t have the heart for it. The boy was obviously conflicted. 

“You should release me.” He told the captain, simply. “I’ll take no vengeance on you.”

“I’m sorry…” was all the young man would say as he slowly backed away. 

“Martin, come away from there!” One of the older guards cautioned the captain, “You’ll catch hell from Lord Nikolas if he learns you’ve been down here.”

Martin fled.

Geralt gave half his bread to the hirikka. 

* * *

The following day there was a new arrival in the cellar. 

It was exactly as Geralt feared.

Almost a dozen men were supporting a much larger cage on long poles. Geralt recognized the occupant instantly. Enormous, with its stumpy, flightless forelimbs bristling with claws and spines, and it’s bulbous tail, it looked like someone had crossbred a noble dragon and a spiny toad. It was the swamp-wyvern that he’d been ‘asked’ to capture. 

It was remarkably intact, but for a few wounds and several claws missing from a hind leg. The blood on the monster’s fore-claws was not its own...

“You’re making a grave mistake.” Geralt cautioned icily, not moving from his meditative stance. “That thing is a danger to you all.”

A few of the men just grumbled or shook their heads. One yelled, “A danger to our enemies!” before darting back up the stairs of the cellar.

Geralt sighed and shook his head slowly.

The wyvern snarled and dashed its fore-claws against the bars of the cage in Geralt’s direction.

Geralt didn’t flinch.

* * *

The next morning, at long last, war came to Daromin. 

Men returned to the cellar with their long poles and removed the cages containing ‘monsters’ one by one. 

Geralt’s was last. 

He squinted and grimaced as his cage was taken out into the light of a sunny day. The cages were being paraded through the town and then out onto the field through the ranks of Darominan soldiers arrayed for battle. Distant horns signaled the approach of the invading army. 

The monsters were greeted with jeers and raucous insults. In the town they were spat upon. On the field, spearmen bounced their shafts off of the bars of the cages. Geralt sat passively, letting their anger and venom wash over and around him like a rock in a stream. 

Finally the cages were brought out to the front of the battle group. They were situated several dozen yards ahead of the Darominan forces, and several dozen yards apart from each other. 

Though Geralt hadn’t actually seen any of the cages opened, he had correctly guessed that the complex, spring-loaded mechanisms atop the cages were designed to allow them to be opened from a distance. Indeed, long cords ran from the backs of the cages out to the waiting battalions. 

Geralt eyed his fellow captives. The kikimora was almost completely unresponsive. The hirikka cowered and occasionally sent a whine in Geralt’s direction, poor beast. The wyvern… it was raging with renewed vigor at the back of it’s cage. 

At first he took it to be angry at it’s captors, but something about the desperation in its cries made him pause.

_Swamp-wyverns are nocturnal. They hate the sunlight. In the daytime it will do everything in its power to return to its nest, and it can find its nest no matter how far away it is._

_Its nest…_ Where had Nikolas said the nest was located? _East of town…_ That put the entirety of Daromin town between the wyvern and it’s den.

_F#$@!_

Captain Martin appeared beside Geralt's cage with a wrapped bundle. He walked around, placed his burden in front of the cage, and unfolded the wrappings. Geralt's two swords lay within.

“I’m sorry, sir witcher.” The young man looked deeply troubled and turned away, not able to look Geralt in the eyes.

“Martin.” Geralt said in a low but firm voice, “Listen to me.”

The young captain’s eyes flicked up involuntarily. 

“Don’t release the wyvern. You have to stop them. It’s trying to get back to it’s nest. Look at it.” 

Martin looked.

“It will tear through your soldiers and then through your town to get there. Don’t let that happen. Stop them. Delay them, and I will kill it.”

The young man’s face screwed up in anguish at being put to the decision, but then he shook his head. “There’s nothing I can do… I’m sorry…” He took off for his battalion at a run.

“F&#@.” Geralt hit the side of his cage with a closed fist. 

From off to his left he heard a questioning whine from the hirikka.

He turned towards it. “You _run_. Alright?” He told it. Though they were separated by a considerable distance he knew it’s hearing was excellent and it’s enormous ears were pricked toward him. “If you can move your legs you stand a chance of escaping this massacre. You _run_ \- that way, to the woods.” He pointed, and he thought he saw the hirikka follow with it’s gaze. He knew it was unlikely that the beast understood human speech, but maybe it could grasp the intent behind his words. It gave another whine and set its head back down on its paws.

Geralt shook his head. The Janowan forces ahead were advancing nearer. 

They stopped, drawing up battle lines. 

_Exchange of fire_. Geralt realized. 

He backed into the corner of his cage and balled up to protect his vitals. His captors had left him in his armor, thankfully, but an arrow in the wrong place could still be deadly. 

Several volleys were exchanged, cries echoed out on both sides by the unfortunate who were hit. 

Luckily for Geralt and the other mutants, few Janowan archers had been instructed to aim for the cages. A handful of arrows broke against the bars of Geralt’s cage, and one lodged in his bicep. It had deflected against the bars and the glanced off the silver studding so it barely scratched his skin. Once the volleys were finished he yanked it out and tossed it aside. 

He was going to check and see how the others had fared, but the oncoming army was, at that moment, ordered to charge. In response, all four cages sprung open with a resounding clang.

Geralt darted forward-- and stumbled. 

His vision wavered slightly. _Hunger and thirst_. His strength was waning. 

He shook it off, lurched forward and grabbed his swords. He sheathed the steel one, tightened his grip on the silver one and _ran_ for the swamp-wyvern. 

But it was running too. 

It had emerged from it’s cage with far more agility than the witcher, and was already barreling straight for the keep. Even as Geralt watched, it crashed into the first ranks of Darominan soldiers, who were too startled and disbelieving to do much more than try and stumble out of the way. Bodies flew through the air- some slashed some impaled, some simply batted aside as an inconvenience. 

The next few ranks of soldiers managed to get their swords up. 

It went worse for them. 

Angered by the flashing steel, the monster went at them with vicious intent. No longer just a minor inconvenience, each soldier in its path was targeted and mauled with predatory precision. The last ranks of soldiers abandoned all pretense of solidarity and fled in open panic, clearing the way for the wyvern to attack the keep.

Geralt was no longer far behind. The attention the wyvern had taken in destroying the soldiers had slowed it considerably, and the sight of the monster dismembering humans spiked the adrenaline that was fueling the witcher’s advance. He ran through the devastated battalion unchallenged.

The wyvern was stopped, momentarily at least, by the wall of the keep. It was only two stories high, but the stone was fairly smooth, and the monster was missing some of the claws it would normally use for climbing. It shrieked in frustration and scrambled toward the lowest point in the wall-- the gatehouse. 

Luckily for the townsfolk, the gate guards had been paying attention and began closing the huge wooden doors as soon as the wyvern turned back on them. 

The monster tested the gate by ramming it. 

The timbers held. 

Then it tested it’s claws on the wood. They found purchase in the grains of the timber and it began to climb.

Geralt caught up with the monster just as it was leaving the ground. He swung the silver sword with all his might and severed the foot from the nearest leg.

The wyvern _screamed_ and whirled toward the witcher as it crashed back to the ground. One of its foreclaws glanced off Geralt's hip-- he felt it rake bone. 

Trying to ignore the pain, he danced away.

But the wyvern was quicker.

It spun and smashed it’s club of a tail into Geralt’s chest, sending him hurtling into the stone wall of the keep. 

The breath was knocked out of him instantly. Stars swam before his eyes. He slumped down the wall, utterly stunned, as the monster advanced on him.

It reached back it’s foreleg, razor sharp claws extended for a killing thrust. 

A brown-furred shape bounded in out of nowhere and latched onto the wyvern’s claw with an angry snarl.

The hirikka.

“NO!” cried Geralt, struggling to rise.

The wyvern looked almost confused. It shook the captive claw, hurling the skeletal form of the hirikka from side to side like a rag doll. It didn’t let go. 

The wyvern screamed at it, then smashed the captive limb to the ground and proceeded to stab it repeatedly with the claws of it’s other fore-limb. 

“I told you to _run_.” Geralt muttered softly as he regained his feet. The wyvern’s back was to him, preoccupied with destroying the insolent creature that had dared impede it. 

The hirikka whined it’s last. 

Geralt _leapt_ at the wyvern’s back, silver sword striking directly between the plate scales of its shoulder blades, down deep into its massive, twisted heart. 

He rolled as the dying monster tried to fling him away. It rose up on it’s back claw and stump, and then crashed down on top of the witcher.

* * *

Geralt awoke to pressure. He could barely breathe. It was crushing him- each slow breath was a shallow and futile gasp.

Distantly, as if miles from the immediate problem, he sensed something was tapping-- no, kicking--his leg. It must have been what awakened him. The leg wasn’t being crushed, was it? 

It gave him a point of reference.

Summoning what little was left of his strength, he tried rocking his body sideways, attempting to roll and force the terrible weight upward just a little. 

He gained about an inch, and half a decent gulp of air, before a new pain announced itself with a fury and the air was forced back out of his lungs as a muffled cry. 

Part of the wyvern had pierced his shoulder as it fell, and it was still pinning him to the ground as securely as a needle pinning a specimen to a board in a mage’s laboratory.

_F$ &@ _

He had little time and less strength. He had to try again. 

He squeezed his good arm into position close to his left shoulder and _heaved_ upward, forcing the spine up and out of his shoulder, which he dragged clear just before the weight came down on it again and ‘clacked’ the spine into the rock below. 

He didn’t pause to celebrate that minor victory. What little momentum he had was the last of the strength he could summon. It was now or never.

He _writhed_ , inching his way down and back. Spines and scales tore at his side and back as he managed to turn over on his front, using what limbs he could to extricate himself from under the monster.

After what seemed like an eternity he emerged into the fading sunlight and collapsed onto scorched stone-- by appearance, a torn and bloody corpse but for the heaving breaths he forced into grateful lungs.

The kicking against his leg had stopped at some point in his struggle for freedom. Now something was nudging his arm insistently. For a time he ignored it, vaguely hoping it would go away. The sounds of battle were distant. 

He had been left among the dead.

Finally he turned his head slightly and looked to the side. 

“Roach?!” He said in surprise. His voice was so hoarse and weak he barely recognized it. When had he last had water or food? He needed to get away from this cursed country. 

The horse stamped her foot upon hearing her name but continued to nudge him insistently. He tried lifting a hand to stroke her muzzle, but it was the hand attached to the torn shoulder, and it didn’t want to move.

“It’s ok Roach,” he murmured, slowly turning toward her by degrees. “How did you find me, girl?”  
  
He looked her over with red-tinted vision. Her eyes were wide with fear and worry, but her ears showed she was focused on him. Her reins dragged on the ground. _She must have torn free_ … he thought, then his eyes narrowed, _No...her reins were cut._ The leather had been parted in a clean slice. He eyed her right side. But for a few small cuts she looked sound. 

“You want to get out of here too, Roach?” 

She snorted.

“I agree.”

Slowly, painfully, he sat up. Dizziness swept over him and he almost collapsed again. Blood-loss? Thirst? Hunger? It didn’t really matter which. Roach put her head against him and he clutched at her halter to steady himself. “Thanks.” He breathed.

Again he did the impossible and got to his feet. Sensing his distress, Roach planted her feet and allowed him to climb his way up her side. The deep gash in his right hip almost thwarted his efforts. 

“One more miracle.” He said under his breath, and slowly began climbing into the saddle. When he overbalanced and almost tumbled off the other side Roach shifted her weight and nudged him back to center. He hunched forward and stroked her neck with a shaking hand. 

From his new vantage he could see for the first time what had happened on the battlefield. The invading Janowan forces had clearly routed Daromin and pushed them back into the keep and the village. Geralt could hear some sounds from inside the walls that indicated the invaders were still finished up the process of subduing the remaining Darominans. Dead and dying littered the field. 

Remarkably, his silver sword was still sticking out of the tall back of the wyvern where he had delivered the death blow. He gathered up the cut reins and nudged Roach a few steps forward. The effort of withdrawing the sword from the monster’s vertebrae almost unbalanced him, but he managed awkwardly to pry it free and replace it in it’s sheath on his back. 

As he began to turn Roach back around for the open field he paused, glimpsing a familiar uniform. 

The body of the young captain, Martin, lay slumped beside the gate. An arrow was protruding out his back and his eyes stared sightlessly into the sunset. 

Geralt swallowed and his brow furrowed.

He didn’t say anything.

There was nothing to say.

Nothing could justify the waste of life on such a scale.

He carefully turned Roach away from the monster, from the keep, and from the town even now being razed by the invading army. He turned toward the open field, the road, the wood. 

“Let’s get out of here.” he murmured, and urged Roach up to a lope. 

She kept her gait slow and gentle, as if sensing that a faster, choppier pace might be too much for her injured master. 

Together they left the meaningless war in their dust.


	3. Not Your Fault

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Geralt was only trying to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This would have taken place quite early in Geralt's career as a witcher.

He came upon them quite unexpectedly on the road from Burdoff to Dorian-- a young couple with a little child and an older man. Their small wagon was stopped by the side of the road, the woman and child still sat in the back, while the two men were crouched over their horse, which lay on the ground, unmoving.

“Oh, thank the gods,” Geralt heard the young woman exclaim when she saw him from a distance.

“Ho there, traveler.” The older man called, waving a hand to him urgently.

Geralt nudged Roach into a trot and rode up beside them. 

As he dismounted and approached he saw looks of wary recognition cross the faces of the two men. It was an all too familiar expression.

The younger blurted out, “You’re a--”

“--a witcher.” Geralt finished for him, curtailing the possibility of ‘mutant’ or ‘monster’ this time. “Geralt of Rivia. Did you meet trouble on the road?”

“Yes!” the young man exclaimed, “We were headed to Dorian and this _thing_ came out of nowhere and took a swipe at old Harold.” He pointed to the horse, who was, remarkably, still alive, but in bad shape. 

“We were able to get turned around, somehow, but as we were fleeing Harold fell. There must have been some sort of venom in the monster's claw.” The older man explained. 

“I thought I heard it moving around in that direction.” The young woman said, shaking noticeably while she held the child to her chest. It was crying softly. “Please, I think it might be coming for us.”

“Hm.” Geralt crouched down to examine the horse. He recognized the claw marks instantly, and the effect of the venom, blackening the flesh that it touched. The horse was breathing heavily now and even it’s spittle was tinged black. 

“I’m afraid your Harold won’t make it. See?” He pointed out his observation to the men. The younger looked horrified and the older shook his head grimly. 

“Better to do the merciful thing than let him suffer.” Geralt advised.

The older man looked to the others. Amongst them the only thing they had that could be considered a weapon was a long hunting knife on the young man’s belt. “Would you do it, witcher?” The older man asked. 

Geralt nodded. “Take my horse over there.” He gestured to the other side of the wagon and handed the reins to the older man. 

The young man went to his wife and held her and the child, shielding their eyes from the gory spectacle as Geralt drew his steel blade and gave the cart-horse mercy.

When he had cleaned his blade and resheathed it, Geralt went back over to the travelers. “I’ll take care of the monster.” He said, “Then we’ll see about getting you on to Dorian.”

“But what if it--” the woman blurted.

“--Shhhh, Kaitlyn.” The young man hissed. “You know what he is.”

“We have no coin to pay you, witcher.” The older man cautioned. 

Geralt shrugged, “I’m on my way to Dorian as well, so the monster is as much my problem as it is yours. I don’t require your coin.”

The group looked considerably relieved. 

“Wait here, I’ll return when it’s safe.”

* * *

  
The monster, as it turned out, was only a juvenile basilisk, just out of it’s nest and trying to establish its first hunting ground. It had the misfortune of encountering a fully armed and expertly trained witcher on it’s first real solo hunt and, predictably, it met a swift and bloody end.

Geralt almost felt sorry for it. Almost. 

It had been a bit of a waste of some potions, he had to admit. There hadn’t been much need to enhance his strength and agility, though he supposed making himself immune to the venom had been a wise step. He didn’t think the basilisk had scratched him, but without that immunity he could easily be in a world of hurt. 

He carried the monster’s claw back with him to the wagon, rather than it’s head, figuring that this proof would be less gruesome on the off chance that the child took a peek. 

As he approached he could hear them talking among themselves from a long way off.

“Shouldn’t he be back by now?”

“I don’t know, maybe we should take his horse.”

“But what if he comes back? Don’t want to anger a mutant like that. No telling what he’s capable of.”

“What if it killed him?”

“Could it kill him?”

“I thought they were immortal.”

“Oh they’re mortal as any man. Just harder to kill.”

Geralt approached, stepping loudly to be sure not to surprise the humans. “It’s finished.” He said, tossing the claw to the ground.

“Witcher!” The older man exclaimed, “You’ve done it!” He approached, holding Roach’s reins out to Geralt.

But he dropped them with a gasp when he saw Geralt’s eyes... 

...Eyes that were pitch black and radiating darkness…

“DEMON!” The young woman screamed.

“Get back! He’s infected,” shouted her husband. He was scrambling to pull the hunting knife from his belt. 

“Stay away, hellspawn!” The older man snarled as he backed away from Geralt.

The woman’s screams became more inarticulate as they increased in volume. 

“Stop, please, it’s just me.” Geralt tried to explain, empty hands out in an attempt to placate.

The screams began to unsettle Roach, who rose up on her hind legs, whinnying her alarm. 

“Easy Roach,” he turned and reached up for the reins that were dangling in front of the horse, threatening to trip her.

Something unexpected impacted the left side of his chest.

The young woman backed away from him, tears in her eyes, holding her husband’s hunting knife in trembling hands. 

Geralt stared down at his chest in shock as dark blood started flowing from the deep wound.

“What have you done?!” That was the older man’s voice.

The young woman just sobbed louder, dropping the knife. 

Geralt clutched at his chest and staggered off to the side of the road until his back made contact with a tree trunk. He slid slowly towards the ground as his eyes faded back to gold.

“We’ve got to grab his horse!” The young man said frantically, trying without success to grasp the reins as Roach tossed and bucked. She was even more agitated now, having seen her rider go down unexpectedly. 

The young man suddenly got a hand hooked on the reins and yanked Roach’s head down with excessive force. 

It was the last straw for the spirited horse. She grabbed the bit in her teeth, yanked the reins out of the boy’s hands pulling him toward her and then reared up and struck with her forelegs.

There was a resounding ‘crack’ as hoof met skull at high velocity, and the young man collapsed bonelessly to the ground, his neck at an unnatural angle.

The woman screamed, “Seeeeeeth!” at the top of her lungs and almost rushed to his side, but for Roach and Geralt still being near. “Nooooo...” she trailed off...whimpering.

The older man successfully avoided the thrashing horse and gathered up the woman and child, shouting, “Run! We’ve got to get away!” 

Together they fled.

The last things Geralt heard from them with his potion-enhanced ears were the sobs of the woman, and the child asking-- ”Poppa? Where’s Poppa?”

And just like that it was over.

Geralt and Roach were alone with a dead horse, a dead boy, and part of a dead monster. 

Geralt breathed deeply to cope with the shock he felt coming on. 

Roach had calmed down at once and walked over to him. When she didn’t see him moving, she put her head down and nudged him in the shoulder.

He blinked and shook his head. 

With a shaking hand he reached up and brought her forehead down to his own, pressed his face into hers and closed his eyes.

“It’s ok, Roach.” he said softly, his voice choked. “It's not your fault.”

A single tear rolled down his cheek.

“It’s not your fault.”

...

“It’s not...your fault…”


	4. The Sorcerer's Monster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Geralt kills a monster and gets paid.  
> If only it were that simple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay. The lockdown blues are apparently not so good for authorial creativity, and this is one of the longer chapters once again. Never fear, the next one is finished (sans some edits) and the final is well under way. Thanks for your patience.

The reds and pinks of twilight cast long violet shadows through the snowbound forest as Geralt and Roach traversed the narrow path up into the mountains. 

The witcher was already second-guessing his decision to venture this far into the hill-country in winter, but he had come too far to turn back now. 

Even as he settled his resolve, he was rewarded to see the faint twinkle of fire-light in the near distance. 

_At last._ He thought. The temperature had been dropping steadily as night approached, and his warmest cloak was starting to feel paper thin. 

“What are the odds a tiny village like this has a tavern, eh Roach?” He grumbled.

Roach snorted. Her breath came out in a white mist.

“My thoughts exactly.”

Even in a town with a tavern, arriving at twilight was a bit of a risk. If he was lucky he might at least find someone willing to let him sleep in their barn. He didn’t want to contemplate the very real possibility that he might have to make camp out in the snow. 

He passed a few apparently abandoned out-buildings before going through an open gate in a low, seemingly decorative fence and into the village proper. 

Immediately the witcher _sensed_ something that made him pause-- a subtle, muted, yet pervasive _magic_ seemed to permeate the very _air_ within the town. It made the hairs on his arms stand on end. More worryingly, it made his medallion warm just a little. 

He cast about, trying to discern the magic’s source. It wasn’t hard to find. The village was nestled against the face of a great cliff, and atop the cliff stood a tall and beautifully sculpted marble tower. 

Geralt snarled and shook his head, “Sorcerers…” he complained.

“You mean Magnus the Mage?” came a small voice from his left. He turned in his saddle, hoping he didn’t look as surprised as he felt. “Don’t worry, he’s a kind mage!” Said the little girl who had appeared soundlessly beside Roach. 

“Annika’s right.” A tall woman said from a nearby doorway. Geralt was relieved to see a set of footprints in the dusting of snow between the door and ‘Annika’. “I know the tower’s...ostentatious… but it’s been there for generations. Magnus just moved into it a few years ago and he’s done a world of good for the town.”

The woman stepped out of the house and walked up to Roach and Geralt. Neither she nor the girl were wearing enough layers for the cold, wintry night. 

Then it struck him-- it was no longer a cold, wintry night. 

There was a faint chill in the air, a light dusting of snow, and maybe a little frost in the corners of windows, but compared to the path he and Roach had just climbed, it was practically balmy. 

“I’m Alisse, the miller’s wife. Welcome to Springhold.” The woman said, proffering a hand. 

Geralt tried to keep the confusion off his face as he shook her hand. 

“Ah, you must be the witcher!” A deep voice joined in from the next house down, “Welcome!”

“I am-- how did you…?”

“Magnus told us. Of course.” The man walked up and also offered a handshake. “Melvin.” He said.

“Geralt.”

“Come now, Geralt. We’ll put your horse up in my barn. I have a spare stall for her.” Without waiting for Geralt’s approval, he took Roach’s reins under her chin and started leading them toward his house. 

The usually feisty horse followed along gamely. 

_Roach?!_ Geralt thought, alarmed.

As they crossed the short distance to Melvin’s house more people started appearing from the surrounding buildings. 

Geralt dismounted when Melvin stopped and he soon found himself surrounded by a cheerful mob of men, women, and children. Handshakes, introductions, even hugs were part of the greeting conferred on him by the townsfolk of Springhold. Geralt found it deeply unsettling.

“Alright! Calm down everyone.” Alisse raised her voice above the small crowd. “Remember-- we decided that Geralt can stay with Palmer for the night, as he has a spare room with a fireplace.”

There were some disappointed murmurs.

A stocky, middle aged man stepped forward proudly and shook Geralt’s hand. “The name’s Palmer.” He said, “It’s an honor, truly sir witcher.”

“Ah, thank you.” Geralt almost stammered. “The honor is mine.”

Palmer looked beside himself with joy at the statement, but recovered quickly. “My house is right this way, if you’d follow me. My wife prepared dinner for you and and the fire in your room is already lit.”

“Uh, I need to see to my horse…” He trailed off, as he saw through the open barn door that Melvin already had Roach’s saddle off and was in the process of brushing her down. 

“I’ll take care of her, Geralt.” Melvin called, waving the brush. “You go get settled.”

Alisse patted the witcher’s arm, “Go rest up. We’ll take you to see Magnus in the morning. He has an important job for you.” She smiled and winked, then gave him a light push toward his host.

 _If the job is anything like the village, it’ll be the strangest one I’ve ever taken._ He thought, and followed uneasily after Palmer.

* * *

Dawn saw Geralt up and glaring out the window of his too-comfortable room. 

Boxes of flowers were blooming outside the window, and on each windowsill down the main street. Blooming-- in mid-winter. 

That irritating tingle of subtle magic had kept him up most of the night. He was tired, but still satisfied to have avoided deep sleep. Sustained magic was, in his experience, not to be trusted. It was like a full-body itch that couldn’t be scratched. He had the strong suspicion that whatever magical field permeated this place it was trying to work on him, and the tingling sensation was his mutant nature rejecting its influence. 

He would find out its intent soon enough, he figured, when he met this ‘Magnus the Mage.’

He heard noises elsewhere in the house and took that as his cue to depart. 

He nearly made it to the door when he was stopped by Palmer, who insisted he share breakfast with the family. Geralt hesitated, but whatever else was wrong with this village their food, at least, did not seem suspect, so he acquiesced. Palmer’s wife was a good cook and she blushed deeply when he shared that opinion. 

“I need to check on my horse and see about the job your sorcerer has for me.” He told the couple when the meal was finished. “Thank you for the hospitality. I hope I will be able to repay you.”

“Oh, you will!” Palmer clapped him warmly on the shoulder. “Not to worry, sir witcher. You will!”

He left that odd comment uncontested. The strange fervor behind the man’s gaze made him think he didn’t want to know what Palmer meant.

Geralt inclined his head respectfully, and departed. 

Though the distance to Melvin’s barn was short, Geralt had attracted a small crowd of young children by the time he made it to Roach. 

He resolved to ignore them, but they chattered on at him, undeterred. 

“Have you come to kill the monster or feed the monster?”

Geralt picked up a brush and went to work on Roach’s back without answering.

“Silly-- nobody can _kill_ the monster, ain't that the point?”

“Just because nobody that's come for it killed it don’t mean it can’t be done.”

“Yeah, he’s a _witcher_. We ain't had one of them before. Monsters is their speciality, see.”

“Monsters was that last hunter’s speciality too, or so he said. Didn’t matter a lick for him.” 

“Yeah, but this one’s different. They say witchers is part monsters themselves, yeah?”

“You part monster, Mr. Witcher?” The smallest girl, Anikka, asked, looking genuinely curious.

Geralt grunted and went back to saddling Roach.

“He doesn’t _look_ much monster to me.”

“It’s the eyes and hair what tells it.”

“Liar. My gran’s got hair that color, and her dog’s got eyes that color. You calling my gran a monster?”

“No, but I ain’t callin’ her animal a ‘dog’ neither. It’s a wolf.” 

“Well fine, wolf’s better’n a dog any day.”

“So the witcher’s got wolf eyes. But a wolf ain’t a monster, so he prolly ain’t a monster neither.”

Geralt hung Roach’s bridle over the pommel of the saddle for easy access, and kept the saddle a bit loose for her comfort while she waited. He stowed his cloak in one of the saddlebags as well. He’d give good odds on having to leave this town in a hurry.

“So what are you, Mr. Witcher?”

Geralt glanced down at the group of upturned faces.

“Mutant,” he replied simply.

“Seeeeeee!”

“Nuh uhhhh, ‘mutant’ and ‘monster’ ain’t the same thing!”

“Are so!”

Geralt took a few potions out of a saddle bag and then extricated himself from the crowded barn, leaving the children to their argument.

Alisse was waiting outside. 

“Magnus the Mage will see you now, Geralt.” She said, pleasantly, “If you’re ready, of course.”

He nodded and gestured for her to lead the way.

As they walked through the village to the base of the cliff many of the townsfolk emerged and greeted them, offering Geralt well-wishes and encouragement. Their over-eager smiles were unnerving. The witcher realized that it was because they had a cast of _hunger_ to them. Whatever this job was, the villagers clearly had a stake in it. 

He shook his head, trying to dispel the sense of oncoming doom. He had dealt with far worse than a duplicitous mage. Whatever awaited him in the tower, he would handle it.

Alisse brought Geralt to the start of a small but well-groomed trail leading up towards the tower from the base of the cliff. “Just follow the trail to the top,” she said, smiling. “Magnus is waiting for you.”

He nodded his thanks and began ascending. The trail was steep and could easily have been treacherous in icy conditions, but the morning was as mild as the previous evening had been and there was no longer even a dusting of snow on the ground within the bounds of the village, nevermind that at least an extra foot had accumulated overnight in the forest beyond. 

He reached the top quickly and, as promised, the mage was waiting to greet him in front of the tower.

“Welcome to Springhold!” the tall man said. He flourished a colorful cape that matched the rest of his flamboyant outfit and flashed a too perfect smile. “I am--”

“Magnus the Mage.” Geralt finished for him, walking up without breaking stride. “And it’s about time you cut the s*#&.” 

He put a gloved hand up to Magnus’s throat in order to push the mage up against the marble tower… 

… and two unexpected things happened at once. 

Geralt found he had _pushed_ the young mage _through_ the marble of the tower. 

He also realized that _what_ he’d pushed on had most certainly _not_ been a neck. 

Finding himself with a hand and forearm inside the marble wall, and most of the mage disappearing with them, he quickly came to the right conclusion. 

He put his face into the ‘marble’ and opened his eyes-- he was looking at the side of a small, stone watchtower situated inside the illusion the large marble one. 

His hand appeared to be _inside_ the surprised mage’s neck, but what his hand _felt_ was a balding forehead. 

He ran his fingers down past an ear and quickly arrived at the man’s _actual_ neck, which appeared to be in the middle of the illusory mage’s broad chest. Then he squeezed and _yanked_ the mage back out of the marble illusion. 

“Dispel the illusions, NOW.” Geralt ordered in a tone that threatened escalating violence. 

The mage gurgled something unintelligible, clutching at his wrist, and immediately transformed into a small, shabby, middle-aged man in stained robes.

“The tower,” Geralt demanded, not letting go. 

“I-- I can’t!” The mage croaked out. “It’s controlled from within.”

“Hm.” Geralt growled. He dropped the man and started making his way around the tower, looking through the illusion for an entrance.

“No, wait!” The little man picked himself up and ran after Geralt. “It’s just a harmless shell, sir witcher! Please, it gives the village folk hope.”

Geralt scowled and walked back over to Magnus. “Hope? More like it gives you power over them.”

The mage cringed, “They believe a mighty sorcerer in his mighty tower is watching over them. They feel secure, even blessed. Is that such a bad thing?”

“Hm...depends on whatever else you’ve got going on here. It’s not just illusions, is it?”

“Ahaha...you have a good eye for magic, sir witcher. I wondered if you would sense that.”

Geralt narrowed his eyes.

“It's my other specialization, you see. I do external illusions-- that’s not illusions that work on individual minds, but rather the kind that exist in woven light and can be seen by anyone. My other specialization is microclimate meteothaumatics.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow.

“Controlling the weather within a small area. That pursuit was deemed impractical and unworthy of study by the brotherhood, which is why I came here to continue my experiments.” 

Geralt frowned, looking back toward the town and it’s unnatural lack of snow. “To sustain a magical field like that...it must take a lot of chaos.” He said, carefully. He was not a student of chaos magic, but he had picked up some basics along the way. 

“Ah, but that’s what’s brilliant about microclimate meteo...about weather magic. I can use the chaos of the harsh storms outside to fuel the experiment. Once perfected, it should be a self-sustaining system.”

Geralt scowled. Something about that sounded _wrong_ but he wasn’t familiar enough with the particulars to pick out why.“You didn’t bring me here to admire your weather magic.” He growled. “The villagers spoke of a monster.”

“Indeed, sir witcher. We do have a monster. Something started stalking the outskirts of the village several months ago, before the winter snows set in. It took only livestock at first, but then it began hunting children. The townsfolk entreated me to slay the beast, but I have no skill in combat magics. The best I could do was lure it into my tower and imprison it in the pit below.”

Geralt frowned. “So why do you need me?” he asked. “You have it captive. You could kill it any number of ways. Failing that, you could easily starve it to death. Most monsters are flesh and blood, of a sort-- even the most resilient ones will succumb to starvation eventually.”

Magnus cringed but explained, “Therein lies the problem. It’s considerably stronger than I anticipated. In all likelihood, it’s strong enough to break out of it’s containment. We’ve been keeping it sated by dropping animals down to it, livestock and game, but soon it hungers again and threatens to break free.”

“And you can’t, I don’t know, use it’s chaos to fuel your weather magic?”

The little mage looked surprised at the question, “A worthy guess, my dear witcher.” he nodded, “But the more complex the organism the more difficult it is for a sorcerer to harness it’s chaos. If not for that, a battle mage, for example, could steal the life from half his enemies and use that chaos to destroy the other half. He would be invincible.” The mage sounded slightly too wistful as he said it. “But no, it’s extraordinarily difficult. It would require intermediary transformations, maybe siphoning crystals.” he shook his head. “Too difficult.”

“Hmm.” Geralt was not confident that it was the whole answer, but willing to take the bait anyway. “So what is it?”

“What is what?”

“The monster-- what is it? What sort of monster?”

“Oh, I’ve no idea.”

Geralt scowled.

“I'm sorry, sir witcher. As I mentioned, my specializations are rather narrow. I don’t own a bestiary and I’ve never seen such a monster before.” 

“Claws? Fangs? Wings? Tentacles?

“Yes.”

“ _Magnus_ …” threat was back in his voice again.

The mage flinched, “It has all of those…”

“Nothing has all of those.”

“I’m sorry! I don’t know how, but this one does!”

Geralt considered. He could smell fear on this man, and also...desperation.

“Fine,” the witcher said, “200 silver, half up front.”

The mage considered before pulling out a purse. “150, all up front.” He countered.

“Done.”

The mage handed over the purse and Geralt opened it, weighed it in his hand, and then tucked it into a belt pouch. 

“Alright,” He growled, “Lead the way.”

“Of course.” The little man scurried around the side of the illusory tower and then beckoned toward the door which he unlocked with one of a large set of keys. Curiously, the illusion held as they passed through-- it must have been integrated with the entrance of the actual tower. 

“Entertain many of the villagers here, do you?” Geralt asked.

“Ah, only on the rarest occasion.” Magnus brushed his hands together nervously, “I do find that it always pays to be prepared.”

“Indeed.”

The mage led him to a heavy iron hatch in the stone floor of the tower which unlocked and opened smoothly, though it seemed to take the small man considerable effort to lift. 

After they had gone through the hatch Magnus locked it behind them. “In case something goes wrong, the mage said, it mustn’t escape to harm the village.”

Geralt grunted, distracted by the smell in the chamber they’d just entered. It was the pungent, putrid smell of rotten meat. There were some very nasty creatures who smelled as rank as this. 

“Stay close to the wall.” Magnus cautioned, leading Geralt down a stone staircase that continued around the inside of what seemed to be a subterranean continuation of the tower. “A fall from this height could kill even a witcher.”

“Hm.” Geralt said by way of agreement. “Interesting architecture.”

“Indeed!” The mage said proudly, “One of my greatest discoveries! While the stone tower is a recent ruin, it was built on top of something much older. This chamber seems to be of ancient design. Its layout is perfect for ...its current purpose.”

The mage stepped inside a small door that fitted seamlessly into the wall. The room inside had an opening that looked out into the chamber below, but instead of window-glass it was covered by an intricate metal mesh. 

As Geralt watched, the mage took a small crystal from the apparatus on his wrist and inserted it into a larger device inside the small room. That unwelcome pins-and-needles sensation of magic grew stronger in Geralt’s mind as a soft green glow illuminated the small room and then ran down from it to illuminate several nodes in the pit below. 

“There!” the mage said, “Now you should be able to see him!” 

Geralt looked down over the edge of the staircase and, sure enough, the bottom of the pit was now visible in the dim green light. Something large and many-limbed was huddled down there, taking up more than half the width of the chamber. Around the circumference were other dark shapes with flecks of white sticking out-- _corpses_ , Geralt concluded.

 _Far too many corpses...and mostly intact._ He observed, eyes narrowing.

“By all means, sir witcher, go down and have at him. I’ll remain here in the relative safety of this room, -- I’m sure you’ll understand.” 

“Hm.” Geralt agreed. He took a few more steps before pausing to draw his steel sword and take a potion. 

He heard the mage lock himself into the small room behind him.

He scowled and looked down.

Further enhanced vision confirmed what his other senses had been telling him. The monster, a grotesque amalgamation of half a dozen different species, was simply _not there_. The beast was a finely crafted illusion. The stinking corpses, some animal but more _human_ , most definitely _were_ real.

_So what killed them…?_

He descended cautiously. He was immune to many forms of magic, but magic could manipulate things to which he wasn’t immune. He’d underestimated mages in the past…

As he went he scrutinized the corpses. They had not been rent or dismembered. Aside from decay, they seemed surprisingly intact, if perhaps a little battered. 

He stepped within range of the illusionary monster and watched a truly impressive display as it reared up on half a dozen limbs, took in such a deep breath that an _actual_ wind arose in the pit, and roared with very real sound in Geralt’s face. 

He stood still, completely unperturbed, as a giant clawed hand slashed all the way _through_ him and disappeared through the stair. 

“I’m done with the games, Magnus,“ He shouted up to the mage. “Why am I here and why are you killing people?”

“Pity,” came the mage’s voice now rather smug voice. It was amplified by some mechanism of the tower’s setup. _Of course_. _Egotistical little..._ “I really wanted to see you in action before taking your chaos.” 

There was a loud _clunk_ and a surge of magic.

The wind ‘created’ by the monster’s roar suddenly surged into a cyclone. 

Geralt was pushed up against the wall by an amazing amount of force.

 _Microclimate meteo-whatever...weather magic…_ _F*# &._

“Who are all these people, Magnus?” Geralt shouted up again, not sure he could be heard above the wind, “Did they deserve to die?” He fought the gale-force, making his way toward the ground level. 

“Nobodies,” the pompous voice echoed down, “travelers, the occasional hunter. They didn’t deserve to die any more than they deserved to live. Like you, witcher. The Butcher of Blaviken has a reputation, even out here. You’re as much a scourge to humans as you are to monsters. But even one such as you can do some good in the world. Your chaos will keep my town thriving for _years_ to come.”

There was another _clunk_ and then something _pulled_ on Geralt in a direction precisely opposite to the wind pushing him into the wall.

But it wasn’t a physical pull.

Something was _pulling on his soul_.

It wasn’t a draining pull, like a vampyr drinking a man’s lifeblood.

It was as if something had hooked his soul like a fish on a line and was steadily reeling it in. Like the fish, he would either break the connection and free himself or his soul would be pulled out of this realm and lost to him. 

_So how is he…?_ Geralt looked around, shielding his face from flying bits of rubble and corpse. 

_He said it it couldn’t be done directly…_

The pull was coming from the center of the chamber-- the space that was still occupied by a very large and very impotent illusory monster. 

Perhaps it served no purpose in actual battle, but each of Magnus’s other illusions had served to conceal something within…

Gritting his teeth, Geralt pushed forward, fighting for every inch against the maelstrom of wind and gory debris. He kept low, advancing on hands and knees, pulling himself along using cracks in the stone floor for finger-holds. 

Soon he was _inside_ the monster illusion-- and facing a large glowing crystal on a pedestal inside a woven metal cage. 

_Siphoning crystal?_ Was that what the mage had called it? There was even a faintly glowing line running between his chest and the crystal.

_F#% &. _

He grabbed hold of one of the four corners of the cage, both to keep from being thrown back by the wind, and to test its strength. 

The cage flexed but held. 

The pulling sensation was slowly growing stronger and the cyclone howled.

He would have to be fast. 

He hooked a foot around one corner of the cage for support and reached a hand down to one of the four points on the floor where the cage was affixed to the stone. He used the sign of ‘igni,’ heating the steel to a red blaze, and then _smashed_ his sword into the joint. It was not the correct tool for the job, but it was all he had. The bolt loosened, but did not relinquish its hold. 

_Again_.

He repeated the maneuver. Now the bolt was rattling loosely. He wedged the base of the sword in the crack and levered it upward. The bold popped free. 

“Give it up, witcher.” The amplified voice drifted down from above. The mage sounded slightly more worried than he probably intended, “I’ll have your chaos in moments. There’s nothing you can do to stop the process. Know that your life will be used in service of the greater good.”

_Greater good my ass._

He didn’t spare precious moments trying to respond to the delusional mage. He had to get one more bolt free, and each time he used ‘igni’ it felt like the crystal reeled his soul in closer. 

He pulled himself over to the next fastener and got to work. Finally the second bolt popped free.

This time he used the unfortunate sword to pry the side of the cage upward until he could get purchase with his hands, then he _lifted_ with all his might, forcing the side of the cage up and over, folding the remaining two joints over on themselves with a loud screech of tortured metal. Soon he had the cage tilted far enough that he could get at the crystal.

He took up the sword again and, bracing himself with his left hand on the cage, he swung the sword with all his potion-enhanced might -- directly into the heart of the crystal.

It _shattered_ in an explosion of raw, burning power and blinding white light.

The witcher was thrown back against the wall of the pit like a rag-doll, unconscious before he hit the wall.

* * *

Geralt coughed, and regretted it. _Broken ribs...gods...too many of them._ Using all of his willpower he managed to turn the rest of the coughs that tried to follow into one long wheezing groan. 

There was no way a disembodied soul could hurt so...specifically.

_Destroying the crystal...it must have worked._

He opened his eyes slowly to the darkness of the tower pit. The green mage-lights were long extinguished. 

But there was a little light after all. 

Patches of wan afternoon sun shone through gaps in the stonework above, where the surge from the exploding crystal must have blown out other crystals in the tower. 

_If it blasted me a way out of here, I’ll be grateful…_

He cast about for a potential exit. It didn’t look like there were enough stairs left to ascend, and he didn’t relish the idea of descending the cliff-side path either. 

There was debris _everywhere_. Large chunks of stonework littered the floor of the pit. He was somewhat amazed that he hadn’t been crushed by anything. A single large stone lay across part of his thigh, where it had fallen. It would certainly leave a painful bruise, but the leg seemed unbroken.

He shifted slightly and heard broken glass. The vials in his belt pouch hadn’t been so lucky. 

“Ah...witcher…” A breathy voice came from nearby. “I’m glad...you survived…” 

_Magnus...of course._ His chamber above had been blown out of the wall. “After you went to such lengths to kill me?” Geralt asked. His own voice was none too strong either. He eyed the rubble for some sign of the mage. 

“Pity...for your chaos to go to waste...after I failed...to capture it.”

Geralt grunted. Some stones had shifted slightly off to his left when the mage spoke. He thought he saw a boot sticking out, though the blood running in one of his eyes made it somewhat difficult to focus. 

He shifted to rise, but paused when he found that part of him wasn’t responding. He looked down at his right hand sitting in his lap. 

The glove and bracer had been totally burned away by the blast of raw magic. The flesh of his hand and part of the length of his forearm arm was red and scorched, torn in places by shards of exploding crystal, some of which were still embedded in flesh. 

He tried flexing the fingers slightly and the groan he failed to bite back echoed through the chamber. But they did all move, if slightly. If he found a good healer in time, he could probably keep all five fingers. Probably. 

With his left hand he undid the front of his jerkin and gingerly tucked the wounded limb inside the flap-- a makeshift sling until he could do better. 

Bracing himself against the wall with his good hand, he climbed to his feet and then staggered over to the mage. 

The small man was clearly in bad shape, lying amidst the rubble, some of which he had fallen on, and some of which had fallen on him. 

“You have another way out of here.” It was not a question.

Magnus coughed, “Yes…”

“Good.” Geralt grunted, “Which way.”

Only one of the mage’s hands were free but he did point. 

Geralt nodded, then began removing stones from atop Magnus. It was difficult work, one handed, and his ribs screamed when he bent down. 

The mage cried out several times as Geralt worked, and eventually passed out. Geralt soon learned why. Most of the man’s limbs had been broken in various places, and he appeared to have at least as many internal injuries. It was unlikely the mage would recover, even under a skilled healer’s care. 

“Let’s go.” Geralt muttered, and gripped the mage by the collar, dragging him off of the rocks and toward the break in the wall that promised an exit. 

Before he got very far with Magnus, Geralt noticed his steel sword lying among some bones and body parts nearby. 

He went to retrieve it, and winced as he saw the damage to the blade. The edge was warped and even chipped in places from smashing against the wire cage and then the crystal. No whetstone would cure this-- he’d need a blacksmith and plenty of coin to pay him. _F#* &. _He shook his head slowly and re-sheathed the sword. He had to force it into the scabbard, and reaching over his head with his good arm was hell on his ribs. 

Rejoining the unconscious mage he dragged the man through the gap in the wall. Sure enough, a rough-cut tunnel led onward. The dark was so intense even Geralt’s mutated eyes could barely see the way. He came to a big cast-iron door and put the mage down. He felt around and, as he expected, found a lock. Every door or hatch in Magnus’s tower had been locked. _Paranoid little bastard._

He grunted in pain as he took a knee beside the mage. “The key. Where is it?” He growled. Not surprisingly, there was no response. He shook the man lightly. He didn’t have much respect for the mages injuries, but he didn’t particularly want to kill him either. Magnus wouldn’t be roused. 

“Alright…” Geralt ruffled through the man’s robes until he felt a jangle that, thankfully, turned out to be keys. The very _large_ set of keys. Of course...

He leaned heavily against the wall of the tunnel as he tried the keys one by one. It was slow and awkward work with only one hand. He could feel blood from his damaged hand soaking into his tunic and tried not to think about it. 

Finally one of the keys turned in the lock. He swung the door outward and winced at the sudden flood of blue light, and the rush of cold air.

He lurched to his feet and grabbed Magnus’s collar again, dragging him through the doorway and into...a garden? The doorway had been hidden behind a handful of tall bushes in a small garden at the base of the cliff. He continued the short distance to the main road, feet slipping on snow slicked ground, hunched forward as much to protect his arm and ribs as to shelter from the cold wind. 

Reaching the road he stopped and lowered Magnus to the ground, breathing hard. Around him, townsfolk were staring at him from doors and windows. Clearly the explosions from the tower had attracted their attention. 

He glanced up behind him with a wince. Unsurprisingly, the marble tower illusion was gone. Only the crumbling ruin of the old stone watchtower remained. 

Alisse was standing nearest him, almost where she’d left him not so long before. 

“I brought your mage,” he said, gesturing with his good hand to Magnus, “If you get him to a healer quickly, he might be saved.”

Alisse looked down at Magnus and then slowly back up at Geralt.

“That’s not our mage.” She said, keen eyes staring fury into Geralt’s. “You’ve killed us. You know that, witcher. You’ve killed us all.”

She gave him a few more seconds of that hate-filled stare and then turned and walked calmly back toward her house. 

As if on cue the other villagers stepped back inside their houses and closed the doors. Their hostile faces still stared out at him from the windows. 

He shivered-- partly at their loathing, partly from the cold. 

The chill wind had turned icy and fat snowflakes were being driven through the air with real force. All around the unnaturally vibrant plants were frosting over and wilting.

True winter was coming for the town with a vengeance. 

Geralt lurched forward, leaving the mage behind. He had done what he could, and probably more than the man deserved. 

He had to get back to Roach. 

He was surprised to find her standing idly outside of Melvin’s barn. Her tack and saddlebags seemed to be untouched. Perhaps the man had considered robbing him too risky? 

With difficulty, he secured his cloak over his shoulders, took a Swallow potion at last, and prepared to mount up.

“Why couldn’t you just die, witcher?” A small voice piped up from practically beside him. Annika, tear tracks streaked her cheeks. 

“You weren’t meant to kill it.” Another child behind the hedge.

“Magnus and his monster kept the town safe.”

“Now we have nothing.”

“He _is_ a monster, after all.”

“Maybe it’s not too late. Maybe if he dies, the spring will come back.”

There were murmurs of agreement.

“Die for us, witcher.”

“Die for us.” Repeated Annika 

She picked up a stone and threw it at him.

He intercepted it before it could hit Roach, but the fast movement hurt.

“Die for us.” some of the others repeated. More stones came from a variety of directions. He couldn’t block all of them. Roach stamped a foot and swished her tail in annoyance. 

“Lets go, Roach.” He lead the horse toward the entrance of the town. Mounting up while under fire, especially while injured, would be foolish.

They passed through the gate that had marked the edge of the magical field surrounding the town. This time there was no change. Winter to winter. 

He glanced back once, glimpsing a few small, angry yet mournful faces.

What would become of them? The village had thrived on murder. When they ‘invited’ him in, they'd sealed their own fate. Hadn’t they? He had slain a monster, and he had been paid. 

He shook his head, mounted up with a groan, and tucked his cloak tightly around his wounded arm and broken ribs. 

It would be a long, hard road down out of the hills. 

He and Roach walked back into the depths of the snow-bound forest. 

Behind them, winter closed in on the town built on lies.


	5. When It Rains...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things simply go from bad to worse.

“A griffin did this?” Geralt asked, standing in the village’s small meeting hall where the injured were being tended. 

“Aye.” said the alderman, “And they was just coming back from the north pasture-- never even saw it coming. 

“Hmm.” Geralt eyed the long claw marks still visible on many arms and legs. An older woman, evidently what passed for the town healer, was doing the brunt of the work, but several younger girls, presumably kin to the victims, were assisting. 

The victims were young men, most not more than boys, really. Judging by their clothes they were indeed sons and farm hands who had just been working together to bring the herds in. Several had dogs waiting worriedly by their sides. 

_Not likely a griffin,_ Geralt considered, _wouldn’t be so bold as to attack a group. And these claw marks aren’t the right shape._

Not that the difference would mean anything to the townsfolk. Geralt decided not to disillusion them. 

“What time did the attack happen?” He asked.

“Just before nightfall.” The alderman said. He was a squat, mousy man. He looked very worried. Geralt wasn’t sure if it was worry for the injured or worry about having a witcher in town. 

Geralt nodded as some haggard looking men joined the alderman, most likely fathers to the boys who had been attacked.

“It was up that way?” Geralt pointed, “this ‘north pasture’?” 

One of the men nodded, “About two miles up the trail. It’s probably still there now, feasting on our flocks.” 

_Unlikely_. Geralt also kept that thought to himself. He’d learned it really didn’t pay to rile humans unnecessarily. Well, unless they were asking for it. But these folks were just frightened.

“We can give you 75 if you kill it, witcher. It’s all we can spare.”

Geralt didn’t believe that for a second, but he wasn’t in the mood to squabble over a few silvers. They might not be quite that poor, but they certainly weren’t rich, either. 

“75 is fair.” Geralt replied. “I’ll leave now, while I have the light.” He ducked back outside and walked quickly over to the front of the small tavern where he had picketed Roach. He caught a few whispers and saw a few of the townsfolk pointing when he wasn’t looking. He could smell the fear on them.

It wasn’t just fear of the monster in the north pasture. 

“Lets go Roach.” He patted her shoulder before untying her lead and mounting up. “We’ve got work to do.” 

They headed up the trail toward the north pasture.

* * *

“There were _two of them.”_ Geralt dropped the heads of the two harpies onto the table where the alderman was sitting in the tavern. It had been a mating pair trying to establish a nest in the area.

He was drenched with sweat and blood, not all of the blood belonging to the harpies. The arm that hadn’t been lugging the heads was pressed tight to his chest, and blood still appeared to be oozing slowly from underneath it. He had walked in with a slight limp. 

The alderman squeaked at the initial surprise and then gulped audibly at the grizzly sight. 

“W…..we can still only pay you 75.” He ventured, cowering slightly.

“It’s fine.” Geralt said, putting an open hand out on the table. “I’ll take my coin, and I need to see your healer.” He had taken some of his ‘Swallow’ potion to speed his healing, but he would prefer not to have to do the stitching and bandaging himself. 

The alderman hesitated again. “We have no healer…” He said, wincing.

Geralt frowned. “What?”

“You heard the man,” came a voice from his left. Geralt turned to see one of what he had assumed to be the fathers, from earlier that day in the town hall, “We don’t have a healer for you, _witcher_.” 

From the right something solid smashed into Geralt’s head, and the tavern winked out of existence. 

* * *

Waking up was pain.

Just _pain_.

There was _so much_ of it that Geralt’s foggy mind took a long time to sort through exactly what hurt-- and then much longer trying to figure out how it was possible that _everything_ hurt. 

He slowly opened his eyes. 

Or tried to. 

One of them wouldn’t open. _Swollen shut_. He vaguely remembered seeing a flash of something from the corner of his eye before...well that was the last thing he _did_ remember. 

_F# &$. _

He looked up. It took too long for his eye to focus. 

_Head injury_. He told himself. 

Finally he realized what he was seeing was a long slash of grey-blue sky bordered on two sides by dark rock. _Where the hell?_ He couldn’t make sense of it. 

He tried moving, and nearly passed out from the wave of pain it brought on. _This is bad._ He thought dimly. _This is very bad_. 

He decided to start slower. 

He tried moving his hands.

One responded. It hurt, but didn’t seem impeded, so perhaps it was just bruised. 

The other did not. He was pretty sure he could _feel_ the right hand somewhere, pretty sure that it hadn’t been bitten off by something, but it wouldn’t move. 

Well, one working limb was a start, at least. He flexed that arm at the elbow. Sore. The movement caused his breath to hitch, which, in turn caused muscles to tighten around ribs that were clearly broken. Geralt fought the reflex to cough, focusing all of his powers of concentration on taking measured, shallow breaths until the urge passed. 

_Now I know about the ribs._ He thought. 

He slowly probed his chest with his left hand. There were multiple points where impact had bruised or broken ribs. He had no memory of any of that…

His hand found a long stretch of dried and crusted blood along the right side of his rib cage. _From the harpy._ The thought came to him unbidden, and this time he held onto it. _The village. The ‘griffin’ that was actually two harpies_. He had returned and asked for a healer for this cut, and they had knocked him out instead…

_So where am I…_ he asked himself again, straining to make his good eye focus. 

Rock on both sides, sky above, scrub trees around him. And was that a gurgle of water nearby? 

_The ravine south of the village_. It finally clicked in his mind. He had passed it when he’d first arrived in the village-- maybe fifty meters deep with a small but fast-flowing creek running through it. 

_Gods damn it_. 

They had knocked him out, quite possibly beaten him, and then thrown him into the ravine. 

That certainly explained why he was sprawled in a crumpled heap and barely able to move. 

He stifled a groan. If the villagers were, by some chance, still in earshot he didn't want to give them the satisfaction. 

He probed further and found his right arm where he expected it-- trapped at an unnatural angle under his torso, shoulder twisted and badly dislocated. 

He would have to move in order to free it, let alone fix it, but he wasn’t ready to try something so dangerous just yet.

First he fingered his neck. If it was broken and he tried to move, he could become paralyzed for the rest of his undoubtedly short life. Mercifully, his neck and what he could feel of his spine seemed sound. 

He allowed himself a small sigh. If moving was an option, there was no time like the present. 

Steeling his resolve, he rolled to the right, onto his front, freeing his trapped arm. 

Unfortunately, the movement sent his definitely-broken left leg bumping into a nearby rock. 

He hissed through teeth clenched so hard he thought they might break. 

It took a few minutes to ride out the chain reaction of pain caused by that small movement. Finally he was able to assess once again. He moved his right leg this time. It seemed sore, but sound. 

_Two good limbs, one good eye….I can work with this._ He told himself. 

At least he had taken Swallow before going back to the village. If not for it’s healing effects he would doubtless have bled out from his original wounds, never mind the new fractures and contusions.

His one hope was Roach. 

Having sensed (but vastly underestimated) the mistrust of the villagers, he had picketed her in the woods off the trail on the east side of the village upon his return. It was not so far from his current location, he figured, but for an unfortunate change in elevation. 

He would have to reset his shoulder, climb out of the ravine on hands and knees, and make his way back to his horse. But his saddle bags held spare potions, and once mounted he could head back to Dorian where he knew a decent healer-mage who had considerably fewer qualms about treating witchers. 

It was a plan. Not an especially good plan, but it was something. 

With a strangled groan he lifted himself onto hand and knees, slowly looking around for something he could use to help set his shoulder. He felt a few sprinkles of moisture hit his face and he eyed the sky again. The blue-grey had turned dark-grey. 

“F$&@.”

He spotted an outcropping nearby that looked like it would serve his purpose and crawled towards it, fighting for every inch as each movement jarred broken bones and bruised muscles. 

He had almost reached his objective when his good boot slipped on a rain-slicked stone and sent him crashing back to the ground, broken ribs impacting the rocky soil. He gasped weakly and lights flickered in his vision, threatening a return to unconsciousness.

He rode it out.

When he lifted his head to try again he was greeted by a roll of thunder. 

The light sprinkles of rain transformed into fat droplets that started pouring from the sky.

" _F*******#%."_ He breathed out to nobody, or perhaps the gods. 

Geralt of Rivia lowered his head and sank back to the ground, utterly defeated.


	6. Here for You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things once again go dreadfully wrong for the unfortunate witcher, and he has to weigh the value and cost of friendship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This most definitely takes place between episodes 2 and 4 of the TV show, for reasons that may or may not become apparent, depending on how many times you've watched the show. The practical implications are that Geralt and Jaskier aren't quite as familiar as they are in later episodes, but (as evidenced by the opening of episode 4) they've definitely spent a good bit of time together. 
> 
> Additionally-- this chapter is long. I mean looooooong. To be honest, if I'd written this first it would have been it's own chapter fic, it's just that long. I thoroughly enjoyed writing it and I definitely stand by it, but I do vaguely regret that comparatively few readers will likely make it through five chapters and actually decide to read the insanely long sixth. But to those of you who have stuck with me all the way to the end-- you are wonderful, kind, and brilliant human beings and I can't thank you enough for encouraging me and sharing in the love of this delightful fandom! I hope you enjoy!

Geralt stood perfectly still and just _breathed_. 

All he could hear was the rustle of wind through leaves and the slow drip of his own blood.

_A child was walking towards him through the mist. It was dragging something behind it...an arm? ...attached to a torso and head, the face vaguely familiar...the back of the head crushed...the child’s father. The child SCREAMED and leaped at him, transforming into a ghoul in mid air, reaching for his throat…_

_It passed through him…_

Geralt flinched.

The smellscape of the forest shifted slightly and from behind, something slashed him across the shoulder blade. 

“Arg…” he gritted his teeth, rotating toward the smell and sound of the monster that he could not see. 

_“Okay my dear, don’t wander far.” His mother’s voice echoed in his head. He was looking up at her just as he jumped off the back of their cart. But the ground didn’t come up to meet his feet. He fell and fell and fell, the round walls of a well flowing past him. He looked up to see his mother’s face peering down after him…but she had no features...her face was gone…_

Geralt growled softly, brows furrowing. _It’s not real. It’s NOT real._ He told himself for the hundredth time. _Focus._

_A bruxa materialized on a nearby tree branch, it’s back to him, but it’s form familiar. It turned, jumping lightly from the branch, and Renfri was looking at him solemnly, the wound in her neck still bleeding. She smiled that haughty, tempting smile and sidled up to him. She winked...then bared a mouthful of fangs at him and lunged._

This time he heard the creature moving. He whirled away from the non-existent Renfri and lashed out in a diagonal sweep with the silver sword, even as bladed wingtips slashed across his arm. 

The sword met resistance. There was a shriek and the noxious smell intensified. He slashed downward, pinpointing the source of the scent. Ironically the toxic vapor that gave the stymphalians the power to inflict terrifying hallucinations also created a foul scent that a witcher’s nose could track...if only he could _maintain focus._

_A familiar voice came from behind a nearby tree, “Is it safe?” It was that irritatingly persistent bard. “Well done, Geralt!” He sauntered up smiling as if to give the witcher a congratulatory thump on the shoulder-- and then, grinning, stabbed him in the gut._

Geralt gulped, and continued stabbing and slashing at the downed monster. It raked him several times across the lower leg before it died. 

_Only two more...I think._

_The forest took on a blue cast as an icy wind transformed it into a snowscape. He was walking into the frozen ruins of a town, a collapsed stone tower perched above it. From the deep snow next to him a frosted hand emerged. A little girl looked up at him with frozen tears in her eyes. “Why couldn’t you die for us?” She latched onto his arm and pulled downwards. More hands and faces burst forth from the snow. Small quiet voices repeated, “Die for us. Die for us. Die for us…” as the tiny corpses grabbed at him and overwhelmed him._

“NO.” Geralt shouted. He’d caught the scent again-- behind and to his right.

He gave another mighty swing... 

...and his forearm _crashed_ into the very real tree that was in the way.

Bones snapped on impact and Geralt roared in agony. 

The sword flew a short distance and, amazingly, met with something that screeched. 

Geralt fell to his knees as bladed pinions ripped across his shoulders, but the smell from the wounded beast intensified… he surged forward on his knees. If he could smell or hear the silver then maybe…

_The swamp-wyvern loomed in front of him. It roared and thrust a claw at Geralt’s face. A figure in a captain’s uniform leaped in front of the claw and was impaled. With a shake, the body was tossed to the ground in front of Geralt. It rolled to reveal Jaskier’s ashen face. The wyvern attacked again, and this time Roach joined the dead bard on the ground, but her wide eyes kept staring pleadingly into Geralt’s as black spittle foamed from her mouth and she writhed in pain. The attack came a third time…._

_There!_ Against all odds, Geralt’s left hand found cold, blood-slicked silver. He ran his hand down to the hilt and whirled, swinging it into the creature leaping for his back. He heard _two_ chunks of something fall to ground before eerie silence resumed. 

He struggled to his feet. The dozens of cuts were taking their toll, and his right arm hung uselessly at his side. _One more…_ he thought as he panted... _Just have to focus, find it...don’t…_

_He was in the forest of Kaer Morhen valley. The mists were thick, but he could sense other witchers nearby-- familiar, brethren of old. In the lead was Vesemir, his master. And Geralt himself... he glanced at his hands...he was a child again. This wasn’t right. They were hunting a kikimora queen. “I can’t…” He heard himself say, with a youthful voice that he barely remembered. “What’s the matter?” laughed a fully grown Cohen. He gave the boy Geralt a clout on the cheek that sent him reeling. “Not scared are you?” He fled toward Vesemir, who would surely have compassion for him. “Help!” he begged. The old witcher looked down at him coldly. Then he took two long steps back into the darkness saying only, “It’s time, Geralt.” In that instant the void he’d left was filled by the enraged kikimora. Young Geralt screamed…_

And the real Geralt surged forward, echoing his mind’s cry with a shout of rage, and _charged_ into the stymphalian that was leaping for him. 

They went down together in a tangle of limbs and talons, pinions and blades. Geralt’s sword had lodged awkwardly in the monster’s wing, so he pulled out a knife and hacked at it viciously as they tumbled, even as the monster was also tearing at him with all of it’s waning strength.

The stymphalian took a long time to die. Geralt took longer to realize it was dead. 

He rolled away from it and tried once more to get to his feet. He nearly succeeded, but one of his legs had been cut deeper than he realized and it buckled, sending him sprawling back to ground. 

“ _F &#*,_” he wheezed.

He rolled over on his back, tucking his broken arm against his chest, and lay there breathing hard-- bleeding hard. 

He needed to get back to Roach. She was close. He couldn’t think where, but he knew she was close. 

_Rest..._ he thought... _I’ll just rest for a moment...and then go find her..._

* * *

Jaskier was having absolutely s#*% luck in south Kaedwen. The folk of the area were too poor to afford a good song, too stingy even to pelt him with food at a bad one, and, on top of that, infuriatingly ignorant about witchers. He’d been thrown out of one tavern for even mentioning the White Wolf. 

He was on Geralt’s trail again, having spent a few delightful months playing and _playing_ in the Kaedwen court after the witcher had last ditched him, but his surly not-quite-friend was moving through this area much faster on Roach and was likely also finding the villages less than welcoming of his services. 

Jaskier, for his part, hadn’t had a decent meal in several days nor hardly any sleep as the autumn nights were getting too chill for camping, with his lack of skill, so after failing to find lodging he’d spent several uncomfortable nights on the road between villages. 

This one was going to be different though. Hagge was across the border in Aidern land, and slightly larger than the last several villages as well, since it lay at a crossroads. There was an inn _and_ a tavern here-- double the chance for a bard to successfully ply his trade. 

Jaskier started at the larger inn first and, despite it being mid-morning, began with a few bawdy classics. The handful of regulars, perhaps residents, seemed receptive enough, so next he segued into the ballad of Filavandrel’s defeat. 

He didn’t get very far before one of the men sitting around a table nearby stopped him very rudely by smacking his lute with an outstretched arm. “Oi, bard!” 

Jaskier swung the instrument out of the way and met the man’s drunken gaze with a scowl.

“You singin’ ‘bout that witcher-- the one with the white hair?” His friends laughed and he didn’t give Jaskier time to answer, “We just had him here last night, didn’t we boys.” 

A chorus of laughs and affirmations circulated the table. 

“And?” Jaskier forced indifference into his tone, despite being delighted to have nearly caught up with Geralt.

“And we tricked him!” One of the men giggled.

“Sent him after some nekkers.”

“Only they wasn’t nekkers, not by a long shot!” The man thumped the table as he laughed.

“He’s in for quite a surprise!”

“I’m sorry, you _do realize_ that if you ‘tricked’ him into doing work you didn’t pay for he’s simply going to be back here to collect his dues. Have you ever _met_ a truly _pissed off_ witcher? Because I don’t think you’re going to enjoy the beating you’re in for.”

The man laughed and slapped his friend’s shoulder in enjoyment. “You don’t get it, _Bard.”_ He chuckled, “We sent him into a _nest_ of stymphalian birds. They’ve been there for generations, been killing travelers and monster hunters for years without end. That witcher of yours-- is never coming back.”

“I think you are _vastly_ underestimating this particular witcher.” Jaskier opined, trying to stem the tide of rising anxiety.

“Oh, is that so, bard?” One of them asked, vaguely threateningly. “Then _where is he?_ Eh? Why’s he not been back for his coin?”

Another joined in, “The nest is less’n an hour’s ride from here-- and he left last night.”

The drunkards laughed harder.

Jaskier felt cold dread settle in his gut. “ _S#*%.”_

* * *

A little over an hour later saw Jaskier on an old borrowed horse, riding nervously into range of the reported ‘stymphalians’ nest.’ 

He’d pulled every string he had (and several that he’d fabricated) to convince the innkeep and his cohort that both he and Geralt were in the employ of the local lord, and that orchestrating the witcher’s demise would be taken as a punishable offence. 

Jaskier had been provided with a mount and some blankets and sent in search of his friend, while the innkeeper's son had been sent to the next town to the west to fetch a healer. He couldn’t be certain a healer was necessary, but he couldn’t conjure many scenarios where the witcher had been delayed all night without injury. 

The road grew more overgrown as he neared the location of the nest. The chill autumn forest was eerily silent. Jaskier shivered, and not entirely from the cool air. Clearly both human and animal locals had been actively avoiding this area for a long time. 

_Maybe he saw it was too risky and decided to move on…_ Jaskier considered… _yeah...because that sounds like something Geralt would do…_ he shook his head.

“ _Sometimes there’s monsters, sometimes there’s money-- rarely both._ ” The witcher had told him not long after they’d met. 

Jaskier hadn’t really taken it all that seriously. Would ordinary people regularly go out of their way to f#&$ over someone as intimidating and actually downright useful as Geralt? The bard had not been inclined to believe it. 

But experience with the witcher was teaching him both that Geralt was not prone to exaggeration, and that the cruelty of humans was not to be underestimated. 

Jaskier and his nag rounded a bend in the road and found a familiar chestnut mare tied to a tree just off the path.

“ _Roach_.” Jaskier breathed. So much for ‘maybe he went on his way.’

He hopped off the old gelding and threw the reins over a broken tree-branch, making his way over to the witcher’s horse. She whinnied and stamped her foot, clearly in distress.

“Easy there, girl, it’s only me.” the bard crooned, approaching cautiously. He saw a circle of churned earth around the tree where she was tied. She’d been stamping impatiently at the ground for quite some time, tied too securely to get free. 

He put a hand out toward her and she laid her ears back and snapped at it.

Jaskier backpedaled and landed on his rear. He looked up at the horse in shock and saw her staring off into the woods ahead of her, ears pricked intently.

Then she pinned at him again and made another futile snap, swishing her tail furiously.

“You trying to get to your master, Roach?” He asked cautiously, picking himself up and peering in the direction she’d been staring. He took a few steps out ahead of her, incorrectly judging himself to be out of her range, and yelped when she grabbed a mouthful of his tunic and flung him forward on his face. Her sharp hoof stamped angrily next to his leg, but didn’t make contact. She clearly didn’t mean to injure him outright. 

“Alright, girl. I get the message!” He scrambled up and away from her. “I’m going after him, gods help me.”

He pulled the blankets off the back of his gelding and slung them over a shoulder, then pulled out his belt knife and held it ready in his right hand. If these bird-monsters had done for Geralt and were still out there, then no manner of weapon Jaskier could wield would give him a chance, but it still felt wrong to go without. _It’s so I can prick it once while it guts me_ , he thought grimly, and made his way up into the woods. 

Behind him Roach let out a loud whinny. Jaskier couldn’t help hearing it condemn him for not taking her along. 

He pushed uphill through branches for a few dozen yards before he came to an area that was almost a clearing. Or rather, the ground was heavily trod and the ground-cover sparse, while all the larger tree bore lengthy gouges and scores up and down their trunks. 

Jaskier almost stumbled over the first dead stymphalian. 

It’s plumage almost perfectly camouflaged it in the large bush that the bard was stepping around. It took him a moment to realize that most of the bush actually _was_ the monster. About the size of a pony, with a grotesque, iron-beaked gargoyle face and a set of massive aquiline talons, the monster was covered with large oddly iridescent brown feathers that looked...sharp. Jaskier leaned down and touched the edge of one.

_“F$* &!_” He recoiled as a drop of blood rolled down his finger. 

‘Sharp’ was a vast understatement. 

He backed up to avoid accidentally brushing against the thing. As he rounded it he saw that it’s spine had been severed by what could only have been a silver blade. 

_That’s our witcher…_ Jaskier thought. He had to be close. 

He cast about the clearing. Now that he knew what he was looking for, he saw the corpses of at least two more stymphalians amid the tree trunks nearby. And was that a fourth? 

He took several steps further out into the clearing and something ‘crunched’ under his boot. He lifted it carefully to find another of those bladed feathers cracked in half underneath. 

Carefully he looked around. There were several more strewn on the ground nearby...and there were several others embedded in the nearest tree trunk. He extended his search-- indeed, there were bladed pinions embedded in trunks and branches all over the clearing. 

His stomach clenched. _Gods._ The blades weren’t just armor for the creatures-- _they were projectiles_. 

_F*#$ that_. Jaskier re-sheathed his knife. It was a dull twig in comparison to these blades and he was man enough to admit it. If one of the monsters still survived, he was a dead bard--it was as simple as that. 

He let out a shaky breath and pushed forward, watching every step to avoid impaling his foot on a stray pinion. 

He made his way toward the fourth stymphalian… and paused, finally glimpsing what he was looking for-- a dark shape on the ground several meters behind it. 

“ _Geralt,_ ” He leaped forward, abandoning caution as he made his way past the monster to…

...the corpse of his friend.

The witcher lay on his back, limbs akimbo, but for the badly broken right arm that lay across his chest. 

He had been cut _everywhere_. Dark blood had leaked from dozens upon dozens of wounds where it had dried and crusted on the shredded armor and corpse-white flesh. 

“ _No…_ ” it came out in a strangled groan as Jaskier sunk to his knees beside the downed witcher, blankets slipping off his shoulder. 

“You can't… not like this, _damn you_.” He stared at his friend, unable to look away. 

And he thought he saw the witcher’s chest rise and fall.

_No…_ He watched intently for what seemed like an eternity. 

It happened again.

_Not a corpse, then!_ He breathed, relief flooding through him. _Not yet…you blessed son of a..._

“Geralt…” Jaskier used the blankets to clear away a few feather-blades and scooted closer to the witcher's side. He gently touched the closest undamaged part of Geralt’s shoulder that he could find. 

There was no response.

“ _Geralt…”_ He shook the shoulder slightly.

The witcher came awake with a gasp. “NO!” he rasped angrily. He tried to push the bard away with both hands, only to cry out when his broken arm flailed into Jaskier.

The bard was horrified. “Geralt! Geralt, it’s _me_. You’re alright.” He tried to gently restrain the attack, but instead was met with a fist to the side of the face.

“Ow!” he yelped, “Geralt, you need to stop. Geralt, you’re hurting yourself. You’re hurting _both of us.”_

“You’re not real,” the witcher croaked, holding up his good arm as if to ward off something. He was trembling. Jaskier wasn’t sure if it was shock or the chill or the horrifying amount of blood loss… “You’re not here, you can’t be here. There must be another one.” The witcher’s eyes darted around almost as if unseeing. 

Jaskier realized that Geralt’s eyes looked strangely black in the filtered sunlight. Not the black of a witcher potion. His pupils were so wide that only a thin corona of gold was left visible. 

Something had drugged or poisoned him.

“Geralt,” The bard said, forcing himself to remain calm and collected, “It _is_ me, and I _am_ here. This is what I do, remember? I turn up at odd times and bother you about stories and adventures. It’s part of my ineffable charm. Right now I’m here trying to get through to you because you are _f# &$ing dying _ and you need my help!”

Geralt’s eyes _almost_ focused on Jaskier, before squeezing shut again. “No. _Focus._ It’s a trick.” the witcher hissed out between chattering teeth. 

“Geralt.” The bard said, as sternly as he could manage. He took a great risk and put a hand on each side of the witcher’s face. _Gods, his face is cold._ It had been a chill night and he’d spent it lying here in his own blood. 

Geralt flinched, gritting his teeth, wild eyes open again and spinning, but he didn’t retaliate. 

“Geralt, I need you to listen to me. _Focus_ on the sound of my voice. Okay? The stymphalians made you see things, unspeakably horrible things, by the look of you. You know that. But you’ve killed them all. Somehow, thank the gods, they’re all dead. It’s alright now.”

“No…” 

“ _Yes.”_ Jaskier insisted. “After all, would a nightmare come and bring you warm blankets?” He slowly picked one up from behind him and ran it first through the fingers of Geralt’s good hand. 

“We need to warm you up.” The bard said firmly, “Then we’ll get you down to Roach, and Roach will get you to a healer. Alright?” He draped the still-warm blanket across the witcher’s shaking form, thankful that he no longer offered resistance. “That is now your epic quest. I am your client and, be warned, I will be paying you in song... as that is the only form of currency I currently possess.”

There was no derisive snort in return to that comment, the bard was sorry to notice. _Ah well_.

Slowly, rather as if the ‘White Wolf’ was an _actual_ injured wolf, he brought forth the other blanket. “I want to wrap this around the back of you, Geralt,” he explained, “This cold ground is sucking the heat right out of you. But I’m going to have to sit you up a bit, alright?” He carefully slid a hand around Geralt’s shoulders, cringing at the sticky feel of blood, and gently eased him into a sitting position. 

As he feared, the witcher’s back was also covered in wounds and the ground where he’d been lying was stained a deep crimson that was already fading to brown.

Geralt’s tremor intensified as the cool breeze touched his wounded back and something between a growl and a groan escaped from behind his clenched teeth. 

Jaskier quickly wrapped the other blanket around his head, shoulders and back, cocooning him against the pervasive chill. He scooted on hands and knees until he was behind his friend and then drew him back down until the witcher’s back rested on his lap, his head and shoulders against his chest. “Here,” he wrapped his arms around the shivering form, careful not to touch the broken arm, “have some of my warmth. Gods know you need it.”

The bard held the witcher tight, steadying his shakes, willing heat back into his frigid body. 

He murmured a half-remembered prayer...which became a tune...which became a song--not an especially _good_ song, just the first bawdy tavern song that came to mind. His heart was too stricken by horror and worry to allow for actual creativity. But silence was too grim for Jaskier’s taste so he sang on, song after song, low and soft and in quiet defiance of the death that had almost succeeded in claiming his friend. 

And slowly the witcher’s shiver settled...his breath evened out...his wild, unseeing eyes regained their golden hue and closed...and his color changed from corpse-white to, well, slightly more of a witcher white. 

Finally, in between stanzas of a fish-monger’s song about water drakes, a pained but no longer panicked voice emerged from the blankets. “Bard...it really is you…” 

Jaskier paused mid verse, delighted at the development, “It really is me-- just as I told you quite a lot of times. What finally convinced you, Geralt?”

“You still...sing of beasts that don’t exist.”

Jaskier smiled in spite of himself, “Small thanks to you! Off fighting a truly unreasonable number of monsters without me! I was promised adventures!”

“You...really weren’t.” the witcher growled softly. “What the f#*% are you doing here?”

“Ha. I was in a tavern and heard some nasty little s#^*s congratulating themselves on sending a witcher to his death. Seeing as I’ve put considerable time and effort into bolstering your reputation, I decided it would behoove me to protect my investment.” He put his hands up to Geralt’s shoulders, “Do you think you can sit, now?” He asked.

Geralt grunted, so the bard helped him back up until he was sitting more or less under his own power. Jaskier kept an arm over his shoulder just to be certain he didn’t keel over in an unexpected direction. 

“This is good, Geralt. This is progress. Now--Roach is just over that way down the hill by the road.” He pointed, “I take it there are potions in her saddle bags that might help somewhat with... this,” he waved a hand over all of Geralt.

The witcher took slightly too long to think about that, but then nodded, “Yes.”

“Alright,” Jaskier said, “I’ll just run back down to Roach and get them for--”

“No.” Geralt interjected, his good hand was suddenly gripping Jaskier’s forearm with an unexpected strength. “Don’t go.” The witcher rasped, his voice sounded almost desperate. “Just...don’t. I can...make it down to Roach.”

“Okay,” Jaskier conceded, vaguely touched but even more concerned. “We’ll go together, then.”

The grip relaxed. Geralt’s head nodded forward and the bard feared he was losing consciousness again. 

“Geralt. _Geralt._ ” He tightened his grip on the witcher’s shoulder, lest he fall over. “If we’re going together then we do actually have to _go. together...Now._ ” 

“Yes.” Geralt agreed. Jaskier felt the witcher’s good arm come up and over his left shoulder. That was a good start.

The bard took a moment to secure the blankets around his friend’s shoulders so they wouldn’t trip either of them up. “You ready?” he asked Geralt, “I assume you understand this is going to _hurt_. Rather a _lot_.”

Geralt gave a single grunt of agreement, and then lurched forward in an attempt to stand. Without Jaskier’s help it would have been futile. Even with help it was nearly a miss. 

Geralt bit back a curse that turned into an agonized groan and leaned heavily into the bard.

“Whoa, there. Okay. Easy does it.” Jaskier bent under the weight, struggling to get Geralt balanced. 

The witcher’s limbs were stiff and movement was clearly reopening wounds that had barely begun to heal. Once he finally had him standing, Jaskier looked over at Geralt’s face. The color had drained back out of it and his forehead was already beading with sweat, but the expression on that face was dogged determination. 

“You’ve got this.” The bard said, “ _We’ve_ got this.” 

They started awkwardly through the trees down toward the road. It wasn’t long before Jaskier was sweating almost as much as his injured companion. 

“You, Geralt, are a remarkably _heavy_ man.” He wheezed out between breaths, “You know, I’d have thought you’d be a bit lighter having misplaced most of your blood, but no-- you still feel like a human boulder,” he tried to shift some of Geralt’s weight higher up on his shoulder as they staggered downhill, but the small movement elicited a soft groan from the witcher. “Sorry about that.” 

Geralt didn’t have it within him to reply. It was clearly taking every ounce of strength for him to keep putting one foot in front of the other. 

Although it couldn’t have taken them more than a handful of minutes to get back down to the road, it felt like an eternity. Jaskier didn’t realize they’d arrived until he was startled by a loud whiny from Roach, who was more than a little excited to finally see her master again.

With Geralt’s tacit consent, he guided them toward the horse and found a reasonably soft patch of hillside to sit the witcher down where Roach could approach and inspect her master. Thankfully, she exercised restraint-- greeting him by nudging him lightly and gently snuffling his hair. 

“Hey Roach,” the witcher said between pained breaths. He reached up and stroked her face, “Sorry, girl.”

Jaskier circled warily around the horse to the saddle bag where the witcher kept his potions. “Which one, Geralt?” He asked, opening the flap. Thankfully Roach was preoccupied and not bothered by the bard’s proximity.

“White one, black cap.”

Jaskier held up a vial that fit the description and Geralt nodded. The bard brought it over to the witcher and popped the cap for him. 

Geralt downed it in one swig and grimaced.

Jaskier sat down next to him and put a hand on his shoulder. “Shall we go?” He asked.

Geralt sighed and hung his head, keeping a hand on Roach’s halter. “I need a rest…” he said to the ground, “A few minutes for the potion to start working. Besides...my sword and knife are back there,” he tilted his head slightly in the direction of the battleground, “And we’ll need trophies...to prove the kills.”

“Oh ho, if you think I’m going to go back there and start hacking the heads off of...nightmare razor bird things, well--you’d better think again, mister!”

“Claws should do…” Geralt rasped, “Right foot of each beast. Proof enough.”

“I...well, I suppose I can try.” Jaskier scratched his head. “You’ll be alright here for a few minutes?” He asked.

Geralt tightened his grip on Roaches halter and leaned his forehead against her face. “Yeah.” He said in a low voice. 

“Alright,” Jaskier stood up. “I’ll be right back. And then we’re getting you back to Hagge.”

“Hm.”

It didn’t take Jaskier more than a few minutes to go and find Geralt’s sword and knife. It took a bit longer to get the knack of separating stymphalian feet from their ankles. He’d wager it would have only taken Geralt a quick swing of the sword, but when Jaskier tried that, the sword bounced off the monster’s leg and threatened to hit him in the face. He ended up just hacking and prying at them with the knife like some failed apprentice butcher. 

When he got back down to the road Geralt hadn’t moved an inch, but he did spare Jaskier a sideways glance when he emerged from the wood, holding his trophies on high.

“ _That_. _Was_. _Disgusting.”_ He proclaimed as he dumped the feet on the ground and proceeded to stow the sword and knife in their place on the left side of Roach’s saddle. 

“Hm.” it was almost a laugh. 

“Do you have a place for these?” The bard asked, pointing at the pile of claws, “Saddle bag maybe?” 

Geralt moved his hand an inch from Roach’s neck and pointed without bothering to look. 

The saddle bag that the witcher had indicated was far too small, but when Jaskier looked inside he found a stained old cloth sack that would serve the purpose. “Nice.” He said, laying it out and disdainfully putting each of the severed feet inside. He went over to the old gelding and tied the bag to his saddle. 

Wiping his hands on his trousers, he walked back over to the witcher.

“Serious question now, Geralt.” Jaskier crouched down beside him, “Stay with me.” He put a hand on the witcher’s shoulder and tired eyes wandered up to meet his.

“If we get you in the saddle, will Roach let me up to ride behind you? Forgive the pessimism, but I am _not_ confident in your present ability to sit a horse for an hour without falling off, and I’d rather not make you ride slung over her back like a sack of potatoes. What do you think?”

Geralt’s brow furrowed, and Jaskier wasn’t sure if he was thinking of an answer or trying to understand the question. 

Then, surprisingly, Geralt took the bard’s hand, turned it palm up and extended it to Roach’s muzzle. 

The horse’s nostrils flared as she huffed softly, then thrust her muzzle into his hand and wiggled her upper lip against his palm, as if probing for a treat. Geralt shifted the hand up to her cheek and let it go. 

Looking incredulously between Geralt and the horse, Jaskier stroked Roach’s cheek gently as she wickered.

“Understand, Roach?” Geralt asked the horse. 

She snorted.

Jaskier withdrew the hand. “I’m sorry, was that a _conversation_ ? Do you _speak horse?_ Are your _minds_ connected by some kind of witcher spell?”

“That’s not a thing, bard.”

“Oh, _really?_ ” he looked between the witcher and horse suspiciously. 

“Hm.” was Geralt’s non-answer. “You can ride.”

Jaskier barked a laugh, “Glad that’s sorted. Well, shall we get you up there, then?” He asked.

Geralt’s color had improved slightly thanks to the potion he’d taken, and he seemed fairly lucid. _No time like the present._

Jaskier was encouraged when Geralt answered with a grunt and put his arm back over the bards shoulder, accepting help in getting to his feet. 

Getting him mounted on Roach was somewhat more challenging, but the horse did her part by planting her feet and bracing against the awkward pushes and tugs from her injured master and his anxious friend. Jaskier got the distinct impression that this was not the first time a gravely injured Geralt had clawed his way onto his faithful mount’s back. 

“Right!” Jaskier said, breathing hard and staring up at Geralt. He reached up and draped the blankets back over his shoulders, nodding in satisfaction, “Now can you just _stay_ there-- oi!” He thought he caught Geralt nodding off, but he was only nodding in agreement. 

The witcher raised an eyebrow. 

“ _Stay_. And don’t fall off for just a minute while I tie the old nag…” He took up the borrowed horse’s reins and affixed them loosely to the back of Roach’s saddle. It wouldn’t do to become an inadvertent horse thief. 

“There we go!” 

Mounting up behind Geralt without hurting the witcher proved an undignified affair, but, true to Geralt’s word, Roach bore it with patience and made no attempt to unseat her riders. 

After securing the reins in one hand and securing Geralt with the other Jaskier used a couple light heel-taps to ask Roach to go. 

To her credit, the witcher’s horse eased into the most gentle walk Jaskier had ever experienced. _She’s due a few sweet apples next chance I get_ , he told himself. 

Jaskier resumed singing, mostly for his own sake-- attempting to calm the worries that harried him as the slow ride dragged on. 

He could feel a warm dampness gradually soaking through the blankets and into his own clothes as even the gentle lurch of Roach’s footfalls reopened various of Geralt’s cuts. The witcher, for his part, was clearly making an effort to stay upright and alert in the saddle, but was just as clearly beginning to lose that battle. 

The bard paused in his singing to try and engage. “Geralt?” he queried, giving the witcher a slight squeeze. The hanging silver head in front of Jaskier lifted and tilted a bit.

“Hm?” It was a weak response, but it was something.

“You do realize you’re getting blood _all over_ my brand new tunic?”

There was a long pause and the head lowered again. “...sorry.” The actual _regret_ in the witcher’s voice just about broke Jaskier’s heart.

“It’s nothing to be _‘sorry’_ about, you complete oaf. It’s not as though you _coerced_ me to come out here looking for you, is it? I’m simply making note of the tunic because when you get paid for this accursed job, and you _will_ get paid, you’re either going to have this professionally cleaned, or you’ll buy me a new one. Understand?”

“Hm.”

_Don’t be a horses arse, Jaskier_! The bard told himself. 

“Well, we’ll be back in Hagge in no time and get you all fixed up-- right as rain.” He forced some cheer into his voice. 

“Hm.” That time it sounded skeptical.

“Don’t believe me? I told you, didn’t I? Got a healer coming up from Ban Glean--just for you. I think you’ll find that’s one of the benefits of having your own personal barker. I can _get things done_ on your behalf.”

“You’re right…”

“Really?”

“I don’t believe you.”

Jaskier barked a laugh, glad for the witcher’s mean humor, “Very funny. You’ll just have to wait and see for yourself.” He paused awkwardly. “I really mean that Geralt-- please try to stay awake and atop this horse til we make it back. I’m not entirely certain I can keep you up here without your help.”

Geralt snorted and seemed to think about it for a moment. “No promises.” He finally answered. 

“Thanks!” Jaskier shook his head, held onto the witcher a little tighter, and then started into the next song. 

* * *

Geralt cracked an eyelid. 

Something was not right. Albeit in perhaps the best way possible.

Last he remembered he was on Roach, fighting to stay conscious. Now he was warm and almost comfortable, he was lying on what could only be a soft bed, and he was mostly covered in blankets. The thousand aches and pains that should be threatening to overwhelm him had been calmed to a dull and manageable thrum. 

His eye made unexpected contact with that of an unfamiliar old man. 

He opened his mouth to speak, but the man put a finger to his lips and shushed him quietly. He pointed downward and Geralt looked.

Jaskier was sat in a chair beside the bed, he had fallen asleep with his head on the sheets and a hand overtop Geralt's which was under the blankets. The bard appeared to be drooling slightly. 

“Your friend needs the rest,” the old man whispered, “He was worried quite nearly sick.” 

Geralt frowned, he wasn’t sure if it was at the word ‘friend’ or ‘sick.’ A second glance at Jaskier’s face confirmed a fleeting memory-- there was a dark bruise coloring the bard’s right brow. That time he’d lashed out had not been a dream. He grimaced. 

“I know you’re in considerable pain…” the old man said, misinterpreting Geralt's expression, “I’m afraid it can’t be helped. I’ve done what I can, but your injuries are _very_ extensive. They are healing well-- I think we have your mutations and potions to thank for that, but even so-- you will need several days rest before you’re back on your feet, longer before you can withstand strenuous exertion.” 

Geralt gave the old man a questioning look and rasped softly, “Who…”

“Oh, begging your pardon, sir witcher. I am Bartholomew, healer-mage from Ban Glean. I was summoned by this town’s innkeeper, actually, at your friend’s behest,” He nodded toward Jaskier. “Apparently you’re both in the employ of Lord Merrick, who, naturally, would demand you be well looked-after.”

That sounded like one of Jaskier’s tales, to be sure. Geralt gave a soft grunt.

“You’re not, though, are you?” There was a twinkle of amusement in Bartholomew’s eye. “I’ve worked for Lord Merrick many times. He’s never had a _witcher_ on retainer, and his bard is a fat man many years older than I.”

Geralt frowned, his look obviously conveying concern. His hands tightened into fists, the movement causing Jaskier to twitch in his sleep. 

“Calm yourself,” The old mage put a hand on Geralt’s shoulder. “I won’t tell anyone. I came and patched you up, didn’t I? Why let all those hours of work go to waste? It was no easy task, I’ll have you know. Don’t think I’ve ever done that much stitching all in one go. I could qualify as a journeyman seamstress after today.” 

Geralt winced. He remembered being cut...so many times. And the illusions...the horrific images pulled from his mind and warped… he shuddered.

“Easy now.” The old man rubbed Geralt’s shoulder gently. “You’ll be alright.”

“Why…” Geralt asked softly, “...did you help? You knew you didn’t have to…”

Bartholomew smiled wistfully, “My daughter was saved by a white-haired witcher, once...a long time ago. She wasn’t in a frame of mind to thank him. He probably got run out of town, if I remember right. I’ve always felt badly about that.”

The witcher gave a thoughtful look, and didn’t comment.

“Besides,” Bartholomew said, nodding toward the sleeping bard, “A witcher with a _friend_? Who ever heard of such a thing? Witchers have allies, and clients. They may partner with someone of similar strength in order to complete a contract. But they don’t have actual _friends_. And certainly not a common bard. This man is of _no_ use to you. He’s not going to sing a monster to death, no matter how bad his voice.”

Geralt’s eyes narrowed at that, involuntarily.

“See? You’re offended on his behalf! A mighty witcher, bothered at an old mage insulting a bard’s voice! You, my good witcher, are an anomaly.” The old man shook his head in bemused wonderment.

“That young fellow--,” he inclined his head toward Jaskier, “I asked him why he went and fetched you, why he spun lies to get me here. He said you’d nearly given your life to save him, and he’d do the same for you. He said you were a team.” He shook his head. “I thought he was delusional, but I see now- you two _are_ friends. And that is a rare thing.”

Geralt frowned. He had spent a lot of time denying that very thing. There was good reason witchers didn’t have friends, particularly among ordinary humans. They created problems and complications, they required protection, they were a liability... 

...and apparently they were an asset too. 

As often as he’d tried to rid himself of Jaskier, he also couldn’t deny that he’d gotten _used_ to the irritating man who somehow always managed to find him again. 

_Friend._ He shook his head at the thought. 

“Deny it if you like.” Bartholomew shrugged, “He’ll still be there for you in the morning.” He pointed to the bard. 

“I have to get going. Rounds to make tomorrow back in Ban Glean. I’ve done what I can for you. Don’t move around much at least for a day or two or you’ll rip stitches and cause more damage. I confirmed your friend’s story about Lord Merrick to the innkeeper and a few of his cronies. I don’t know how long the lie will hold-- it depends mostly on your luck really-- so get your rest while you can. And make sure _he_ does as well.” The old man pointed to Jaskier. 

“Was he injured?” Geralt asked, trying to sound indifferent.

“The bruise over his eye? It’s nothing serious. No other injuries. He’s just exhausted. Said he hadn’t slept for a couple nights before this happened. And you were in a pretty horrific state when he brought back. Enough to give anybody the shakes.”

“Hm.” said Geralt, somehow both relieved and guilty at the same time. 

The conflict must have been evident on his face because the old mage patted him on the shoulder again. “You’re both going to be just fine.”

He gathered up his bags and slung his cloak over his shoulders

“Thank you, Bartholomew.” 

“You’re very welcome, sir witcher.” The old man said with a small bow. Then he left.

And for the first time in a long time, the witcher felt very welcome indeed.

* * *

Jaskier yawned loudly and stretched. It felt so good to have a sleep in a comfortable bed…

_Bed?!_

He sat up stock straight, wincing as his right eyebrow twinged with pain. He reached up and rubbed it, only to find it was a livid bruise, “Ow!” He complained loudly, looking around. “ _Geralt_.”

In the bed next to his, propped up on pillows and still amply swathed in blankets and bandages sat the witcher, sipping quietly from a mug of what definitely smelled like broth.

“Geralt!” Jaskier grinned broadly, swung his legs over the side of his bed leaned over to peer at his friend.

The witcher turned his head slowly to eye the bard. 

“You’re up! And you’re looking well! Okay, I tell a lie. You _do_ look a bit like death warmed over, but that’s worlds better than just ‘death’ and you very definitely looked like death-- very corpsy and blood-soaked --not very long ago,” Jaskier winced at the memory, “So I’d call this a great improvement.”

Geralt grunted. 

“The covered-in-bandages look suits you.” He leaned over to poke at the clean linens wrapped around the witcher’s bicep.

Geralt leaned away slightly with a reproachful glare.

“You’re like a sexy rotfiend, or ghoul, or whatever sort of monster it is that comes out of the ground still wearing its graveclothes.” He crooned. “In any case, how did I…” He pointed to the chair that still sat next to the other side of Geralt’s bed, then he pointed to his bed, then he pointed back to Geralt and cocked his head. “You _didn’t….”_

“I didn’t.” Geralt agreed.

“But then how…”

Geralt put the mug down in his lap, nestling it beside his broken arm, and then rubbed awkwardly at something on his cheek for a moment. “There were some barmaids…” He finally answered, unable to keep the embarrassment out of his voice.

_“Geralt!”_

“You might...uh…” the witcher flicked his hand toward Jaskier’s own right cheek.

“No!” Jaskier exclaimed, rubbing his cheek and coming away with a smudge of red paint. 

“They came with breakfast,” Geralt nodded to the small table in the corner of the room that was laden with quite a lot of food that appeared to have already gone cold. “Said they wanted to be helpful.”

“ _Helpful!”_ Jaskier laughed, “Is that what they’re calling it, now? I hope _you_ didn’t avail yourself of too much of their _help_. You’re in no condition…”

Geralt snorted, and picked up his mug again. “No.” He said flatly, “Not the worst way to die, I suppose.” He tilted his head thoughtfully, “But no.”

Jaskier stretched back out on his bed, putting his arms behind his head. “I don’t suppose you’d mind if _I…_ ”

Geralt growled warningly.

“ _What?_ I’d wait til you’re asleep. Old Bart said with all the blood you’ve lost you’ll probably sleep away most of the next couple days. I’ve got nothing but time and this _very_ comfortable bed.”

“Bard…” that familiar threatening snarl warmed Jaskier’s heart.

“ _Joking_ , Geralt.” He laughed, then muttered under his breath, “ _It’s a big inn-- I’m sure there’s another empty room somewhere.”_

Geralt snorted again and shook his head. 

Jaskier’s stomach chose that moment to rumble loudly. 

Geralt gave him a pointed look and then nodded in the direction of the table. “You should eat.”

“I heartily agree!” He jumped up and almost keeled over as a wave of hunger translated directly into dizziness, but he covered the misstep by turning it into a flourish-and-spin as he sat himself in front of what appeared to be quite a feast of a breakfast. “I. Am. _Famished_.” 

He tore into the cheese and sausage with gusto, pausing only to drink between mouthfuls. He glanced over at Geralt as he chewed a hunk of bread. The witcher sipped from his mug, but his dour expression carried a hint more worry than usual. “What?” Jaskier asked, mouth full.

The witcher shrugged slightly. “That mage said you were in need of food and rest…” Jaskier heard the note of concern in the witcher’s voice and smiled. It was clearly the closest Geralt could bring himself to asking after Jaskier’s health. Stupid man was half-dead but trying to make sure _he_ was alright? 

“I’m not sure _what’s_ suddenly burdened you with an overabundance of _giving-a-damn_ , but I’ll have you know--I’m _fine_.” Jaskier reassured him. “Food,” he gestured to the table, “and rest,” he wagged a bread-roll at the bed, “All sorted. Along with the very best in brooding, mostly-dead company.” He gestured to Geralt, who merely returned a sour look. 

_Good,_ Jaskier thought _,‘worried’ doesn’t suit._ “And what about yourself?” he asked, “You hungry, for anything more than broth? We’ve bread enough here to feed an army.” 

The injured witcher seemed to consider, and then nodded his assent.

Jaskier selected a soft roll and lobbed it gently at Geralt.

_“Toss a roll to your witcher, O--_ God’s I’m so sorry, Geralt!” Jaskier jumped up and over to the witcher’s bedside, guilt stricken, “That was thoughtless…”

With one arm broken and the other hand holding a mug, Geralt had had no way of catching the bread. It had bounced off his chest and rolled halfway down the bed as Geralt gave an annoyed wince. 

Jaskier snatched up the mishandled roll, shaking his head at his own carelessness.

Geralt set his mug down on the low table by the bed and took the proffered bread, “It’s fine,” he told Jaskier, but the bard could see the flicker of pain that crossed his eyes as he moved his good arm, tugging on numerous stitched up lacerations. 

Chagrined, Jaskier went back to his meal…but silence really wasn’t his strong suit. “So that sword arm.” He said, conversationally, “That’ll take a good while to heal, yes?” 

Geralt grunted, “Broken bones take time, even mine.” He looked down at the arm, splinted and wrapped tightly. “Your mage did good work on it, though, some of the best I’ve had. I’d give it a month or less.”

“S _ome of the best you’ve had?_ ” Jaskier gave the witcher a horrified stare, made comical by the cheese hanging out of his mouth, “Just how many bones have you broken-- if you don’t mind my asking a question to which I may not actually want the answer?”

The witcher shrugged, “I’ve lost count,” he took a bite of the roll and chewed slowly. 

“ _Lost cou---_ ” Jaskier sputtered, “I’ll have you know I’ve only ever broken one bone in my entire body. Second toe on my left foot. I tripped while running up a staircase when I was eleven, and _it was hell!_ ” He shook his head. “ _Gods,_ Geralt. ‘Lost count...’”

Geralt gave what was almost a mean smirk, “We had _very different_ childhoods.”

“No s&$*,” the bard muttered under his breath as he dug into some cold eggs... _lost count_. He was genuinely upset by the revelation. It took him a long moment to circle back to his original point. 

“Anyhow, can you actually go a month without…” he waved a fork at all of Geralt, “...witchering?” he asked. “I mean, pardon the assumption, but you don’t exactly strike me as a man with _savings_. Or perhaps you buried some gold in Brokilon? Set up a bank account in Novigrad? No?”

Geralt shrugged again. “No need. I can still work. I’m almost as good with my left hand as my right. As long as I avoid riskier contracts it should be fine.”

“What, and people have no problem with hiring a one-armed witcher?” 

“‘People’ don’t have to know. You haven’t been singing songs about a white-haired _right-handed_ witcher, have you?”

“No…”

“Then don’t start.” 

Jaskier snorted. “Right! I suppose not! Though I should object on principle to any attempt on your part to infringe on my artistic license. But in this case it’s a forgivable offense. You want another?” He waved another soft roll.

Geralt’s scowl all but said ‘ _you’d better not throw it at me…’_

Jaskier stood up and put the roll in Geralt’s hand. “There.” he said. “Some water too, yeah?” He filled a glass from the pitcher on the table and set it beside Geralt’s mug. 

“So you take many jobs while injured, do you?” The bard continued.

“ _Jaskier.”_ Geralt stopped him, “You’re worried I’m going to slip out of here and leave you behind to go chase the next contract?”

Jaskier frowned, “The thought had crossed my mind…”

“Well don’t.” He stretched slightly and winced. “I know the limits of what I can take, and I won’t be leaving this room for the next day or two. Assuming our welcome lasts that long…”

Jaskier gave a guilty laugh, “Old Bartholomew told you what I did to secure his services and our very fine accommodation?”

“Just that it involved... stretching the truth.”

“Heh, I prefer ‘ _embellishment,_ ’ though that might be a bit of an understatement in this case. I may have used a token bestowed upon me unwittingly by Lord Merrick’s oh-so-lovely wife a few months ago during our passionate but ultimately doomed tryst to convince the good folks of the inn that we are part of the Lord’s personal retinue.” He grinned and gave a mock bow, “I mean, they might not figure it out before we leave, right?”

Geralt’s skeptical look said he did not share that opinion.

“In any case, I’d recommend we take full advantage of their hospitality, while it’s...available.” He smirked. 

Geralt nodded somewhat absently. He had finished the broth and drunk some water and now appeared to be ready to settle back down into the blankets to sleep.

“Oh, not yet you don’t,” Jaskier rose and returned to the chair beside Geralt’s bed. “Bart instructed me to change your dressings at least once a day, and that’s an obligation I mean to discharge while you are awake and considerably easier to manage.”

“Fine.” Geralt growled. 

The bard moved back to his seat by the witcher’s bedside and pulled a tray of supplies from under the bed. “Okaaaay.” He rubbed his hands together surveying the medical accoutrements. There was a basin of clean water, a large jar of salve, some clean cloths and a truly impressive pile of bandages. 

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “Prepared much?”

“Oh our friend Bartholomew was a consummate professional, let me assure you.” Jaskier hesitated. “He may, however, have neglected to instruct _me_ in the finer points of wound-care… You may be surprised to learn that very few people in my life up to this point have regularly been shredded to bits by monsters.”

Geralt grunted, “It’s fine, I’ll do it.” He tugged at one of the large knots of fabric that secured the binding to his broken arm...and immediately winced.

“Geralt _please._ ” Jaskier said, stopping the witcher’s hand with his own, “Can you just _not?!_ How about using your _words_ for once and _telling_ me what needs doing? Alright? I promise-- I’ll be more delicate than _you_ have any hope of being.” He spread his palms, “They don’t call me Jaskier of the Magic Fingers for nothing!” 

Geralt gave him a disgusted look.

Jaskier gaped and pointed, “ _You_ have a dirty mind. I was _obviously_ referring to my skills with the _lute_. Any other implications, however apt, were not intended.”

Geralt rolled his eyes and made another attempt at the knot.

“Okay, alright, _stop_.” Jaskier gently batted the hand away again. “You want the knot undone and the binding unwrapped, yes? There are wounds to clean underneath?”

“Yes.”

“Alright, just let me work.” True to his word, Jaskier undid the knot without any jostling to the injured limb. 

Geralt carefully lifted and supported the broken forearm with his good hand while the bard unwrapped the tight binding to reveal a mass of black and blue flesh, covered in several places with smaller bandages that were spotted through with dried blood. 

Jaskier grimaced in sympathetic pain.

“Remove the bandages,” Geralt said tightly, “Clean the wounds off with water, dab some salve on, then fresh bandages.”

Jaskier nodded nervously, and began removing the bandages. He was afraid they’d be stuck to the witcher’s skin, but apparently Bartholomew was better at his craft than that. The salve seemed to create a neat barrier between the wounds and the fabric, and under the bandages were revealed several long lacerations bound with neat rows of stitches. They had bled in places, and were clearly still fresh, but they lacked the angry red lines or yellow pus of infection. A few edges even looked like they had started to heal together.

“Faster would be better.” Geralt said through gritted teeth. He was still holding up the arm, as several of the cuts extended underneath, and his face was starting to look pained. 

“Sorry!” Jaskier dipped the cloth in water and began gingerly wiping away the blood and dirtied ointment. “Good?” He asked, when he’d finished.

Geralt nodded. “Salve.” 

Jaskier grabbed the jar and cracked it open. “Ooo chamomile!” he said, as the strong scent wafted out of the jar. 

Geralt’s nose wrinkled.

The bard used his fingers to carefully daub the the ointment onto the wounds, taking the occasional note from Geralt as to how much was sufficient. Then he wrapped fresh bandages over each. He was so focused on the task that he realized he hadn’t spoken for several minutes, a fact for which he felt Geralt hadn’t shown the proper amount of appreciation. 

He looked up at the witcher to make a comment to that effect, but saw that Geralt’s face was drawn and limned with sweat. 

Jaskier gulped. “The binding?” he queried. 

Geralt’s nod was almost imperceptible, but he adjusted his grip on the broken limb for ease of wrapping. 

Jaskier began, but was soon interrupted, “No. Tighter.” The witcher said through clenched teeth. 

Jaskier cringed, but swiftly undid his last few rounds and made a second attempt, grimacing as Geralt failed to contain a few grunts of pain. “Good. Keep going.” The witcher rasped when Jaskier paused to look up at him. He finished and tied a passable replica of the original knot before relinquishing the arm back to Geralt. The witcher gingerly moved it back to his lap, cradling it while he closed his eyes and took a few controlled breaths. 

Jaskier darted over to his own bed and grabbed a pillow, which he eased under the injured arm, allowing Geralt to lean back while keeping it level.

“Thanks.” The witcher breathed, as Jaskier resumed his previous post. 

“Well that was deeply unpleasant. I really hope I’m safe in assuming that that was the worst of it.”

Geralt grunted softly without opening his eyes.

“Shall I work on these?” he asked, lightly touching the witcher’s upper arm where several more sets of bandages adorned his bicep and shoulder. 

Geralt nodded and Jaskier set to work, humming softly all the while, more for his own comfort than for the witcher’s. 

Geralt seemed to recover gradually as the bard worked, and before long was back to observing with his usual cool indifference. 

Which, of course, Jaskier took as an invitation to keep talking. 

“Look at this one!” he observed, pointing to the latest cut he’d uncovered for cleaning. “That has got to be at least half healed. _That_ is amazing. If I hadn’t seen you sliced to ribbons just yesterday I wouldn’t take this for anything less than three days healed. And at this rate, it’s barely going to leave a scar!”

“Hm.” Was the witcher’s reply.

“Speaking of which, and pardon my saying, but-- you have a _lot_ of scars.” He traced one that crossed the cut he was cleaning. “I mean-- _SO many_. I know you hunt monsters for a living, but-- _gods_ Geralt. You’ve seen some s#&^! And some of these-- I’d venture to say _most of them_ \-- look far worse than these new ones will in a few days.” 

Geralt looked at him askance, as if trying to figure out if there was a question in what Jaskier had said.

“I dunno Geralt,” the bard shook his head wonderingly, as he smoothed salve into the cut, “working alone for decades, terrifying monster after terrifying monster,-- wait, _are those teeth-marks_ in that one???” He pointed to a scar further down the witcher’s chest.

“Claws.” Geralt answered with a hint of amusement. 

“Ha! That’s what I’m talking about, Geralt. Regenerative talents notwithstanding, I just wonder how you’re still alive, is all…”

Jaskier was not expecting a response, so he was surprised to hear Geralt’s rough voice answer, “The worst ones look like that because I didn’t make it to a healer,” he said quietly, “...I...don’t often make it to a healer. These might have been just as bad...worse, even…if not for...” he left the rest unsaid but the gratitude transmitted in the silence that followed spoke volumes. 

“Truth is,” the witcher continued with a sigh, “I’ve reached the brink of death many times. When death didn’t take me, I had to find a way...to pick myself up...and move forward on my own.” He frowned down and looked as though he were reliving unspeakably painful memories.

Jaskier stared for a long moment at those tortured golden eyes, eyes that wouldn’t or couldn't rise to meet his gaze. He was starting to realize that this man was both far stronger and more deeply hurt than he was capable of comprehending. 

“Well,” Jaskier said, “This time you’ll have to move forward with me.” He put an arm across Geralt’s chest and grasped his shoulder, “Because I need to get at the wounds on your back.” He tugged the witcher forward with a wry smile, “Come on, that’s it.”

Geralt grunted with what sounded like relief, and leaned forward into Jaskier’s arm, exposing his back to the bard’s ministrations. 

Jaskier, for his part held onto the witcher, arguably to support him, as he did his work one-handed. 

It wasn’t an embrace, really. 

But it also wasn’t _not_ an embrace. 

The bard hummed softly as he worked and the witcher relaxed.

Jaskier couldn’t help but smile to himself when that tired, silver-maned head lolled forward and came to rest leaning against his own. 

After a little while the witcher’s slow breaths took on a bit of a snore-like quality, and Jaskier paused. “Oi, Geralt?” 

The witcher twitched and grunted. 

“You can’t fall asleep just yet. I require your participation for some of this. For example....” he reached down and tugged on something. 

The witcher’s head came up with a wince. 

“Oooooh, I thought so. You, my friend, were sliced on the arse.” Jaskier didn’t succeed in keeping the smirk out of his voice. 

Geralt growled something unintelligible, but likely invective. 

“Come on now, lift a cheek. It’s got to be done, and there’s no way you’re reaching back here without popping a dozen stitches.”

The witcher leaned to the side and Jaskier set to work. “You know, these really are hard as rock.” He commented, “I mean the whole of you _looks_ to be carved out of marble, as I’ve mentioned more than once in song and verse, but your backend really, truly lives up to its reputation.”

_“Bard...”_

“If you think about it, it would be downright uncharitable of me to leave my audiences bereft of such a delightful detail about the, shall we say…constitution...of their beloved witcher.”

“ _If you dare…”_

“I’m just trying to think how I can insert ‘chiseled cheeks of granite’ into the lyrics of my next ballad.” he quipped.

_“Jaskier!”_

“Yes, Geralt?”

“ _Shut the f# &* up.” _

* * *

Jaskier yawned noisily and stretched out on his bed. 

The witcher beside him was, at long last, fully re-bandaged and settled in for a long healing rest. The whole endeavor had taken several hours and Jaskier himself was exhausted. He didn’t know how long he’d managed to sleep the night before, but he reckoned it wasn’t more than a few hours, and then there were the nights before that...he yawned again just thinking about it. 

Geralt had insisted he eat some more before turning in, and the bard had complied, surprised to find that he was still hungry. 

Then he had shuttered the windows against the afternoon sun and gone to lie down, once again deeply grateful for an actual bed to sleep on. 

“Need anything else, Geralt?” he asked while stifling another yawn. 

“No...” he sounded hesitant. “Jaskier?”

“Yes?” The bard turned his head toward the witcher.

“Thanks.” It sounded rather as if it pained him to say it, and not in a way that had anything to do with his injuries.

Jaskier smiled anyway. “Think nothing of it. What are friends for, anyway?”

“We’re not friends.” Geralt objected mildly.

“ _Really?”_ Jaskier rolled over onto his elbows and gave the witcher an indignant glare, “After _all of this_ ? You save me, I save you. You help me make a living, I help you with your image problem-- I know: still working on that, _clearly_. But after all of that, you’d still say ‘we’re not friends.’” He did an amusing approximation of the witcher’s voice. 

Geralt let out a sigh, “Witchers don’t have friends.” he explained, “It’s just...not a thing. Like those creatures in your songs-- fairies and ice dragons and such. Not real.” He looked down. “It would only end in pain.”

“I hear you; I understand.” Jaskier sighed, “And I _disagree_.”

Geralt seemed about to object but the bard continued.

“No, listen. You say it will end in pain but from what I can see, all you’ve ever known is pain. Why not take a chance on something better?” 

“I know, I know--I’m not going to change your mind with words. You’ve had decades to become _set in your ways_. Big ol’ loner that you are, you’re not going to change your stripes at the snap of a finger. And I’m ‘ _just a bard’_ , as you’re so fond of saying.” 

“But I want you to know I _will_ change your mind. Not today, not tomorrow, maybe not for years. But as many times as you leave me behind I’ll find you again sooner or later. I’ll sing your stories and reap the sweet rewards of your renown. And eventually you’ll come to realize that I’m _here for you_ in times like these when even a legendary _witcher_ is in sore need of a _friend._ And--”

He looked back over at Geralt. The witcher’s eyes were closed and he his breath was coming slow and deep.

“--And you’re asleep. _Of course_.” Jaskier breathed out a dramatic sigh and flopped back on his bed, “ _Impossible man.”_ he grumbled. 

Then he leaned over and pulled the blankets up over the witcher’s shoulders before crawling under his own sheets. 

_Well, there’s always tomorrow_.

* * *

Geralt, for his part, lay awake for a while after, as his companion settled in and soon was snoring softly.

He hurt, and it was not just the dull ache of his many, many wounds. 

The bard’s conviction tore at him. 

Geralt was right. He knew he was right. Years of training and then decades on the job proved out the wisdom of the witchers' practices. Keeping company with a human would absolutely get one or both of them killed eventually-- there was no question. Either Geralt would fail to protect him or somebody would find a way to use the bard to get to Geralt. It was as inevitable as the rising and setting of the sun.

But then he thought of the bard’s songs bringing him back out of the darkest parts of his mind, of the not particularly strong but very determined arms wrapped around him, keeping him in the saddle, of the hours the already-exhausted man had just spent cleaning and bandaging the wounds of a _witcher_ who generally treated him with indifference, if not outright disdain. 

He frowned to himself. 

_No._

_Tomorrow._

Tomorrow he’d tell the bard he wasn’t needed. Tomorrow he’d drive home how foolish the man was for thinking they were friends. Tomorrow he’d make plans to leave Jaskier behind, _again_. Not because he wanted to, gods knew, but because he simply had no choice- it was the right thing to do. 

But that was tomorrow. 

Tonight he could rest easy. 

Just for tonight he could bask in the warmth of that friendship. He could savor the knowledge that one irrational, foolish, wonderful human being _cared_ about him as a person, and would risk anything to keep him safe. He smiled as he closed his eyes, allowing himself to hold on, if just for a moment, to what all witchers wanted but none could keep: the love of a friend.


End file.
